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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566464">lovers lost in time</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonely_is_so_lonely_alone/pseuds/lonely_is_so_lonely_alone'>lonely_is_so_lonely_alone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Law &amp; Order</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Multi-Part, S5-S6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:07:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,204</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566464</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonely_is_so_lonely_alone/pseuds/lonely_is_so_lonely_alone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She knew it was crossing a line - crashing through a boundary they had set themselves in those first, slow, weeks. </p><p>Her head screamed at her. Not again. Not again. Not again. </p><p>- tracing the relationship between Claire and Jack, from their first kiss to their last.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Claire Kincaid/Jack McCoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. first move's on you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I'm back! Are you ready for my version of Jack/Claire? </p><p>I love that the show is so maddingly vague that literally almost anything could've happened between these two - there's so little to go on! </p><p>I totally blame 5USA Law and Order repeats for bringing me to this point.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>‘They’ll turn the lights on you if you stay any longer,’ Jack said, from the doorway. She hadn’t been expecting him, so she snapped up quickly, looking over. He was cut out in the bright light, and his face was obscured by the darkness from the empty hallway behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was sitting cross-legged on the floor by his office couch, her abandoned shoes were laid to waste by the desk. It was eleven, or maybe later. There were pins and needles in her legs. Overtime on overtime, the Dobson case had hit the fan, and she was trying to pull it back together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and rocked forward to try and get feeling back in her feet. ‘I thought you and Adam headed out an hour ago?’ They traded looks, and then she started to collect the folders together, absentmindedly, sorting and ordering. The motions were spread like shrapnel in a circle around her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the door, Jack shrugged. ‘We disagreed about the indictment, I hung around after.’ He ran a hand through his hair, which ruffled it. Then he pulled at his already loose tie, like it was a noose around his neck. The knot stuck, tight.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was something about it which caught her, his hair pushed back, his collar undone. He was relaxed, laid back. He watched her with dark eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You should go home,’ he said, and his voice was deep, like it stuck to the back of his throat all of a sudden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span>,’ she said, with a laugh in her voice. She picked up the paperwork and let it go, and the sheets fluttered back to the ground. ‘But there’s a lot of motions to write.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Do them tomorrow,’ he said, quickly. She rolled her eyes. He’d been the one to say they needed to get the case back on track. Dobson’s gun hadn’t matched, but Jack was sure they had the right man - was pushing and pushing and Claire was worried she’d die in a wave of those familiar blue motions if they pushed any harder.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You said-’ she started, but he cut across her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’ll turn the light off if you stay.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was teasing, one eyebrow raised. He had a hand resting on the light switch box. Claire couldn’t help but smirk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You wouldn’t.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I would.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughed, and sprung up from the carpet. His fingers dragged slowly down the switch box, over the button. He was looking right at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though her legs were dead she moved quickly, and soon she was standing right beside him. She reached out towards the light switch and overlaid her hand on his. She said his name sharply, but neither of them moved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flicked the light off. She flicked it back on immediately. He had this look of superiority on his face, one she wanted to wipe right off. And they were close, now, in the doorway, his body pressed up against the frame. She was standing in the space in front of him. One step and she’d be right against him. She watched him breathe in roughly. His ribs rattled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Claire…’ he said, quietly. He reached up and she thought for a moment he was going to put his hand on her cheek. And there was this crazy second that she imagined him leaning forward - closer, closer - until his lips were hovering there and -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>click </span>
  </em>
  <span>echoed in the silence. Darkness fell. He had hit the fucking lights. Again. Claire laughed, cynically. He didn’t touch her. She could no longer see him but his breath was warm against her cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You won’t win,’ he said. She could smell his aftershave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I won’t?’ she hit back, as innocently as she could muster. He smelled like allspice and wood varnish. It was easy to drink that in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the grey light, she stepped closer to him, so that they were just a whisper apart. Their hands were pressed together on the light switch. She moved the pad of her thumb against the back of his hand, just a little circle, round and round. His skin burned under her touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You won’t,’ he choked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angle of his hip butted against hers, and she wanted to move closer, to let him put his arms around her - relent to the tension and electricity buzzing in her blood. They had set lines in the sand, when they first met - he had said he </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t anticipate a problem. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And now here they were, in the doorway darkness, and Claire wondered how long those walls they’d put up would last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned the light on. His face flashed into view, and he was smirking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire put her hands softly on his chest, and felt him tense under her touch. She rolled her palms upwards until they were on his shoulders. He leant into her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A second, they stayed like that. And then she pushed away, stepping back into the room. Claire left him standing in the doorway and went over to collect the papers littering the floor. She was acutely aware of the fact he was still watching her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s just work, Jack,’ she said, and she dared glance over at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleared his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You still need to sleep,’ he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not with you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she nearly snapped back, and there was a cynicism in the way she almost spoke. One mistake like that was bad enough for a lifetime. This was different. This was just the kind of guy Jack McCoy was. He pushed with the case and he pushed with this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stood on the edge of a line they couldn’t cross. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was a game. A bit of fun. It wasn’t ever going to mean anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire pulled the papers into her arms and turned around so she was facing him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘See you in the morning,’ she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack pulled at his tie until it came loose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘See you, Claire,’ he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he stepped backwards, into the hall. As he went, he reached out a hand and clicked off the lights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She heard his footsteps in the darkness, and her laugh echoed on the whole floor. He really knew how to test her patience, the bastard. Jesus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a game. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>game</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elevator dinged, far away. In the office, Claire exhaled uncertainly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those walls they’d built were looking a little shaky. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The case mentioned in this chapter is the Sandra Dobson case from 5x02, Coma.</p><p>Thanks to everyone who reads this! I've written about four chapters so far, and plan for about twelve. I live for validation, comments and kudos. Anything is very appreciated. </p><p>As a side note, I'd just like to mention the absolute nightmare I had trying to work out an actual timeline for the episodes. I was like, cool, there's dates in every ep, it'll be easy - the black title cards literally tell you. Only, I discovered that in the L&amp;O universe September 21st 1994 was both a Monday and a Wednesday (thanks to 5x02 and 5x03), while 5x01 claims that the 20th September '94 was a Tuesday while the 22nd (you know, two days later) is a Wednesday. (In an odd coincidence, 5x01 first aired on September 21st 1994, which was in reality a Wednesday) </p><p>Also, because of the dates given in eps, most of the events are implied to take place simultaneously (events in one ep often take place months apart, with other eps claiming to take place in these gaps) but basically, this just Does. Not. Work. For the purposes of this fic, I'll state if it's a post ep or if it takes place during an ep.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. tiny victories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! Thanks to everyone who's read the first chapter, I'm really enjoying writing the series.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There were chinese takeout boxes on the side, ordered in a lethargy when the evening hit. The blinds were tight shut, in order ward off the advancing October chill. Claire stood at the window with her arms crossed. Behind her, Jack and Adam were at the table, chopsticks in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’m only saying that the 60s were something else, Claire,’ Jack said, nodding into his rice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced at him over her shoulder. They had been talking about the past all afternoon, ever since Susan Forrest took the Man 1 deal and ran out. Jack had been trying to persuade Claire that she couldn't possibly understand what it was like - she wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>at</span>
  </em>
  <span> Woodstock after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning around, she hitched herself onto the edge of the desk and reached forward to the table to grab a glass. Adam, leaning back in his chair on the far side, nonchalantly handed her the scotch bottle as if it had been their little secret for years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire poured as she spoke. ‘Oh yeah Jack, how old were you then?’ She paused, looking up. He chuckled and suspiciously shoved some rice into his mouth to avoid the question. She glanced at Adam and then back to Jack. ‘What, twenty? A law school kid. Don’t tell me you were out protesting ‘Nam?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack set the takeout box on the table, and pointed at her with his chopsticks. ‘And what were </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> doing when you were twenty?’ he asked. He stared her down as he said it. His hand was near to her collarbone, like a threat or an invitation. He quirked an eyebrow and there was something in the way he had spoken that made a blush creep on her cheeks and up her neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack’s hand hovered in the air until Adam broke the tension. With his own chopsticks deep in a beef black bean, he said, ‘I can beat you whippersnappers. Protest this, college that.’ He waved his arms, dismissively. ‘At twenty, I was on a boat in the south pacific with a gun and prayer.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack whistled. Claire drank the whiskey down and dropped her gaze. Adam knocked his hand on the table and laughed, deeply. ‘I do agree with you, though son,’ he said, turning to Jack in that slow, deliberate way he favoured ‘It was all a long time ago. Ancient history for us. Not so much for you, Claire.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged. She was still holding the whiskey glass, though it was empty. Both of the men were looking at her, now. It suddenly felt a mistake to have drunk, because she felt it go straight to her head, and this wasn’t exactly the best place to start to stumble. In front of her boss </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>his boss. She began to feel self conscious for sitting on the desk and made a move to sit on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She slumped down and ran a hand over her face. Jack was watching her, even if he tried to disguise it by reaching down to grab the prawn crackers from the paper bag on the carpet. This was a bad idea. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad idea, because Jack was staring at her and his eyes were impossibly intense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d spent the last few weeks disagreeing about the Forrest case, bickering, needling at the same old arguments. And there was something familiar in the way they fought these days, light on anger and filled with teasing. It was becoming </span>
  <em>
    <span>dangerous</span>
  </em>
  <span>, especially when Adam was in the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They didn’t talk about it, her and Jack. They didn’t talk about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>flirtation, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which is what she’d come to call it in her head. Innocent, playful, unserious. The game was well and truly underway. They should’ve laid ground rules and stuck to them. Except the way he was looking at her - </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. That on its own trampled all over the damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>rules</span>
  </em>
  <span>, especially the ones Claire had set for herself, let alone the ones she felt Adam Schiff had implicitly made them promise.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack had turned in his chair so his arms rested on the back, twisted round so he could look her right in the face.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You know,’ he started, ‘you seem like someone who’d protest.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Me?’ she said, surprised. She raised her hands to her sides like she was surrendering. She wasn’t totally sure what she was giving up. She looked past Jack at Adam, who was measuring out a finger of scotch without looking up. Claire knew he was listening, even if he pretended he wasn’t. Adam Schiff </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>listened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack forged on. He was holding tight onto the back of the chair. ‘Women’s rights. Pro-choice rallies,’ he said, smirking. ‘I can just see you as an idealist kid holding the poster.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yeah?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her response only seemed to encourage him. ‘Tie dye tee, war paint, the whole nine yards. I can imagine you fighting on the hill with the rest of us.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You make me sound like a rebel.’ She laughed and looked him flush in the face. She raised an eyebrow to challenge him. He smirked. Claire felt drawn to him, and the force of it surprised her. With Adam in the room they were running close to the wire; pushing and pulling, testing out the water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yeah?’ he said, and his grin went all the way to his eyes. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, slowly, while looking right at her. She blushed despite herself. It felt stupid, childish. How could he have this effect on her? </span>
  <em>
    <span>He was her boss. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Why did thinking that only seem to make her blush deepen? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yeah,’ she said, quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the topic of protesting, she reminded herself, if you minused the tie-dye Jack was kind of close. She had gone to women's lib marches at college, but they’d been small scale, a handful of teens thrown together last minute. They’d never amounted to much. They’d never seemed rebellious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You’re a woman in a man’s world,’ Jack said, with his face split into a mischievous grin. ‘You’re a rebel just by being here.’   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She caught his eye again. It twinkled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Let’s just say my protesting days are behind me.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughed. ‘Mine ended with a rather unpleasant night in holding at the 34th precinct on Holland St.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire raised her eyebrows and smirked. She didn’t say anything so Adam cut in. ‘I wouldn’t say that so loud, son. There are certain people who’d have your neck for it still.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack raised his hands like a boy scout. ‘Never happening again. I wasn’t made to be an anarchist, Adam.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘No?’ the older man deadpanned. Claire reached across towards the table, aiming for a box of chow mein which Jack had only half finished. She’d nearly stolen it when the desk phone rang. It was sudden, shrill, and it was like it caught her in the act. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone call snapped the atmosphere right in two, a rumble of thunder to break the evening. Jack almost threw himself across the room to answer it. He listened for a while to whoever was speaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While he was otherwise occupied, Claire shifted forward in her seat. Across the room Adam did the same. They glanced at Jack, and then back at each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’ll tell you something for free, young lady,’ Adam said. He bent towards her, conspiratorially. He was holding a whiskey glass in his hand. ‘Some mistakes are better not made twice.’ He paused and stared at her stony eyed. ‘I think the young people these days call it hindsight.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thought he was talking about Jack and the cells, but there was a double edge to it. Jack and something else - something Claire thought she understood well enough. Adam’s eyes were glassy pools, watery and grey. He looked concerned. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thayer</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That had been Claire’s first mistake. Adam knew it. Claire did too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t reply because Jack came off the phone. He didn’t put it on the cradle, but offered the receiver to Adam. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Judge Carson, about the Rowland case.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The older man climbed out of his chair and shuffled over to the desk with the cord wrapped around his hand. Jack walked purposely across towards the couch and sat down beside her heavily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adam started to talk in low, dulcet tones to the judge on the other end of the line. Jack leant in close. Claire was in one mind to walk away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, Jack whispered, ‘Let’s cut and run,’ and his voice floated to her. She closed her eyes for a second. His breath was against her cheek. He pressed up against her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She swallowed. ‘Drink?’ she said. It didn’t even sound like her own voice. Something in her body betrayed her. She looked up at Jack, expectantly. Her eyes darkened. And maybe that was just the game. Maybe it was something else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Drink,’ he affirmed. He ghosted his hand over her wrist. His touch felt like fire, burning. He trailed his fingers over her pale skin, up to the hollow of her wrist. She didn’t pull away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adam was still on the phone when they left, coats hastily pulled on. She caught a look of the DA in the glass as she and Jack headed for the elevator. Adam Schiff was shaking his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire kept walking. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This takes place post White Rabbit (5x05)</p><p>Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed. Love to know what people thought.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. checkmate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Big thanks to anyone reading + kudos/commenting! It totally makes my day when someone leaves a comment, so please do if you've got a moment.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She walked into the office and sat in the chair opposite Jack’s desk. He was scribbling notes on a legal pad and didn’t look up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was early December, but the blinds behind him hadn’t been closed. Claire guessed he’d lost track of time. The city lights invaded the room, and the far off sound of car horns and sirens drifted up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Resting her hands on the arms of the chair, she crossed her legs. They’d barely spoken all day; she’d been out on case interviews and he’d been doubling down on his reading - checking statutes three times over. In fact, Claire wasn’t sure they’d been alone in the office for a week. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So her plan was working. Safe distance. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stay away. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ever since the night the Forrest case closed, when they slipped out to that bar. She’d started repeating it to herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stay away</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That night, she’d let herself get carried away with the idea that Jack was different, that they could be different. The two of them had said goodbye on the street outside her apartment and she’d been drunk, and she thought he had been too. It would’ve been easy. But Adam’s advice was like an alarm in her head, constantly firing warning shots. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stay away. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed an impossible test of will, but one she’d come through so far. She had to keep her distance, because Jack had this annoying habit of dragging her right back down to him just by grinning in that smug, self-congratulatory way of his. Somehow, whenever he looked at her like that, all she wanted was him, more.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Thayer, he had flattered his way into her bed. She’d known it was naïve, now, to have believed a word he’d said. Flowers and compliments, a war of attrition that eventually broke her down. And that had felt like love. Useless, petty love. Thayer used to tell her, time and time again, that he would leave his wife - that she was blinding, beautiful, to him. It was charm; a thin veneer over manipulation.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was something else. Jack was something else. It was a physical need, just to be around him. She felt embarrassed at the reaction her body had to him. The day before they’d come up in the elevator together and just standing close to him had driven her crazy. There’d been half a dozen other people in there with them and all she’d noticed was </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the desk, he finally looked up. He thrust a piece of paper towards her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘My closing, for tomorrow,’ he said, without introduction or hellos. ‘Read it and tell me I don’t sound like a prick.’ He pushed his hair away from his face with his spare hand. He looked exhausted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirked at him, teasing. ‘Don’t you always….?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack pushed the paper closer towards her and she took it. He spun a little in his chair. ‘But a loveable prick, right?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yeah,’ she said. She rolled her eyes. ‘Something like that.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood up and walked over to the window, looking over the city. Glancing down, she read the first few lines of his opening statement: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Give me the keys to your house, or I'll charge you with murder. I'm the D.A. I can do it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Strong stuff. She could imagine him in court, performing assuredly, confident. There was something just in the thought of it which ran like an electricity current down her spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can do it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>How did that turn her on? Come on Claire, she wasn’t a teenager. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stay away. </span>
  </em>
  <span>How could his arrogance be attractive? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stopped reading and glanced over her shoulder. Jack was watching her.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I think it’s one of my best,’ he said, and his voice was low. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dangerously low. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Oh god, she hated him. It was her who had everything to lose. She had promised herself that she wasn’t going to be a notch on a bedpost. She’d built up this career. She was a lawyer and then a woman, no matter what Sarah Maslin said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She coughed, to clear her throat. She didn’t trust her voice anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Come on Claire,’ he cajoled. ‘What do you think?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she didn’t reply straight away, he pushed himself away from the desk and came towards her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. No. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That wasn’t staying away. His collar was open, his tie abandoned, the first three buttons of his shirt were loose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped beside her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Claire?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raised the piece of paper with his statement on, like that answered the question. She searched her head for something to say, but he was so close that his shoulder brushed against hers. Her skin was alive at the touch, however small. She closed her eyes and she knew. Claire Kincaid was a lawyer. She knew a losing battle when she saw one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kept fighting a little longer. She opened her eyes and looked at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘The judge will hate the theatrics,’ she said. He nodded, absentmindedly. ‘And Adam will probably kill you if this case collapses.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack mumbled an okay and stepped so he was standing behind her. The city lights were spread out before them. She tried to concentrate on the cars rushing below them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Anything else?’ he said, purposefully. He brushed the hair on the back of her neck and rested one of his hands on the skin there. His breath was against her cheek. ‘Claire?’ he said, and his voice was maddening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So fuck staying away, then? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pushed up against him and heard his breath hitch. Two could play at this game. There was a tiny victory in the way his body reacted to hers. She felt him against her. She smiled at the idea of his helplessness, that she was just as dangerous to him as he was to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands smoothed down her shoulders and he pressed the lightest of kisses to the exposed skin. It was like a firework, an explosion. His lips were rough, and she heard him sigh softly. Her stomach dropped, and swirled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire leant her head back against his chest. She could feel the rushed movement of his ribcage, up and down, as if he was unable to steady his breathing. It hadn’t crossed her mind that he’d be nervous. His face was bent into her shoulder, a whisper’s reach above her skin. He hovered there, and for a moment neither of them moved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kept waiting for him to say something. Lines and boundaries. Until now, one of them had always walked away before they’d let it get too far. Call it self preservation. And here they were in this liminal state, in-between right and wrong and all those mistakes they’d made in the past. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, he put one of his hands on her waist and let it rest there. His hands wandered and she closed her eyes. Claire reached back and trailed the palms of her hands down the plane of his back. Jack’s breath was warm on her neck as he kissed her again, more insistent. This time there was no mistake.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, she broke the embrace and she could swear she heard him whimper at the loss of contact. Claire turned around. She put her hands on his collar, and there was a confidence in that action she hadn’t expected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You know you’re an asshole, right?’ she said. She laughed, and it echoed in the dark emptiness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she leant forward, quickly, so that her courage wouldn’t fade. So that the voice in her head saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay away</span>
  </em>
  <span> wouldn’t win out. Because, even when she’d spent months trying to deny it, this had been inevitable since the moment they’d met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kissed him hard, and put her hands across his shoulder blades to pull him closer. Their bodies collided, and it was a kaleidoscope of intense emotion; a rush she could do nothing to stop, to quiet. The need for him outweighed anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands fell to the small of her back, then lower, lower. He brushed her thigh and that was it. That was the point of no return. There was nothing else in the world but the way he touched her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t a game anymore. Because she was kissing him and to hell with their histories, to hell with Adam Schiff. Fuck her rules and anybody else that told her this was a bad idea. He was in her arms and it felt like he fit there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire thought she could lose herself to the urgent way he kissed her for hours. But she pulled away. There was no way they were doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his office. And she didn’t exactly put getting caught by Adam high on her list of things she wanted to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stopping now was the right thing to do. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>responsible </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face was just inches away from his as she fought to catch her breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Jack,’ she said, and her voice sounded quiet and far away. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smirked at her. She raised an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yes,’ he said. His eyes were hooded, dark. He looked serious. He sounded desperate. ‘Let’s go.’ He pressed a messy kiss to the edge of her lips and stumbled backwards, pulling her towards the door by her hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fell into the hallway, and his arms snaked around her body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of the corridor, which was dark and lonesome apart from their presence, she pushed the elevator button three times. He felt solid next to her, and she leant into him like a reflex, newly learned. He pulled her tight against his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they waited for the ding, she tugged at the cuff of his shirt and said, ‘Your place or mine?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked over at her and shrugged. She kissed his cheek, and then his collar bone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Mine’s closer,’ she added, after a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elevator doors slid open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Done deal,’ he said, climbing in. After a second, she followed after him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down they went. And there was no coming back from that. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The case mentioned in this chapter is from Virtue (5x08) - and Sarah Maslin, who is briefly referenced above, is a character in that ep [she and Claire have dinner in a restaurant and discuss the difficulty of being a female lawyer in a man's world,  which I think is a really interesting scene actually] </p><p>Kudos and comments make me smile :) Please let me know if you enjoyed.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. around now you should be laughing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was the knock at the door that woke her. A violent, shaking knock that had her rolling over to look at the clock on the bedside table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>3:04 am. The illuminated numbers blinked back at her like torture. She’d only been asleep for twenty minutes. Claire put her head into the pillow and let out a muffled sigh. The knocking started up again, a repetitive strike that echoed the whole way through her apartment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She threw off the comforter, sat up on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You should get that,’ came a groggy voice from the other side of the pillow. She looked over, and saw him stretched out, propped up by an elbow. He was grinning, sleepily, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up with him and listen to him breathing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Hmm,’ she murmured. ‘They’ll go away.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She reached for him and she kissed his chest, fleetingly. For a heartbeat she forgot what had woken her, why she should be climbing out of bed instead of getting back in. Jack was warm under the plane of her palms. He ran a hand through her hair and kissed her roughly. Claire fell towards him, until their bodies pressed against each other.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The knocking became thunderous, like the scatter gun strike of machine gun fire. It thudded along with her heartbeat.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack pulled away and she let out a cry from the sudden loss of his touch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He said, ‘Your neighbours will hate you,’ and nodded towards the hallway and the ever insistent knocking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire laughed and dragged a vest off a chair by her bed. She slipped it on and stood up. Behind her, she heard Jack roll back over. She guessed he was going back to sleep. Crossing the room, she pushed the door open and whoever was outside knocked louder. She heard someone call her name through the closed doorway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Shit,’ she said, taking stock of the space. There were clothes thrown like fallout; her dress shirt, her pants. Jack’s jacket was abandoned by the door to the kitchen. And she’d recognised that voice, even dulled by the distance, by the locked door: Mike Logan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was not good. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Very not good at all. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Shit. Shit. Shit,’ she said, and she started to collect the clothes. It suddenly seemed a terrible idea that they’d not made it to the bedroom. But he’d been all over her the moment she’d slipped her key in the lock, and she’d kissed him with her back pressed against the wall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As she swept his shoes to the side, she looked up and saw Jack was standing in the gloom of her bedroom doorway. He was in his underwear, with his arms folded. His hair was mussed, and his face was set into an infuriating smirk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You could help,’ she whispered, frantic. Another sock nearly escaped her grasp, as well as his belt, which snaked under the bureau. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’m enjoying watching,’ he said, and his voice was heavy from sleep. He stretched his shoulders and rested his hand on the back of his neck.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She threw his shirt at him and it hit him square in the chest before falling to the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Jack!’ she said, careful to keep her voice down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He picked the shirt off the floor. She shoved the rest in the kitchen, in a puddle of clothes. An embarrassment started to rise in her cheeks. Why the hell was Logan here? It was the middle of the night. Claire wasn’t even supposed to be first on call for major cases. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stalked towards her bedroom and to Jack, who still lurked in the shadows. Claire pressed her hands to his chest and his hands automatically went up to hold hers. She leant up as if to kiss him, but at the last second she pushed against him so that he stumbled back into the doorway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Stay in here,’ she hissed. His body was warm under her touch. He pouted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Claire-’ he said, but the look she shot at him silenced anymore protests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shut the door and headed back out. Taking a deep breath, she undid the latch and opened the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not just Logan. Sweet Christ. Lennie Briscoe was standing there too. Claire prayed that Jack realised just how important it was to not just wander out a blow this whole thing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘She lives!’ said Mike, leaning on the doorframe with his arms folded. The two cops were both obviously still on shift, wearing long coats and ties tight enough to choke on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire clearly didn’t look impressed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Sorry Counsellor,’ Briscoe commiserated. ‘We did call.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘When?’ she said, snappily. She hadn’t been awake enough to use tact. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘About an hour ago,’ said Mike, shrugging his shoulders and looking to his partner for confirmation. ‘Nobody picked up.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘We were nearby,’ said Briscoe. ‘We thought we’d swing by. It’s the Dawson case. The Lieutenant needs you down at the station as soon as.’  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You musta been asleep,’ suggested Mike. ‘When we called.’ He raised his eyebrow only a little. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire blinked at them momentarily. That blush she’d managed to contain started up again. She felt it rise on her neck and knew it would be obvious to the two men standing at her door. An hour ago, she’d certainly not been asleep. Anything but. She’d been pushed up against the bureau and Jack had been kissing her jaw. Her hands had been at his belt - and - and - jesus. She really had to stop thinking about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was like they were two out of control teenagers. God, it should’ve been embarrassing, the way they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. It’d been nearly two months and it was still intoxicating, like there was electricity in her blood. Jack could drive her crazy just looking at her, even in the fucking office. Especially at the office. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight, they’d been working late on the Bud Greer case, deciding on a strategy. They’d stayed until nearly two, sitting close on the couch with the files dotted around them. There’d been no one else around and she’d rested her feet in his lap while they worked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they’d been nearly done, Jack absentmindedly traced his fingertips across her hip. She’d shoved him at the shoulder, but it was a weak action and only encouraged him further. Jack kissed her neck and that’s when she gave up any pretence that they’d get more work done.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘We’re leaving,’ he said, a moment later, forcefully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands wrapped themselves around her waist. He kissed the column of her neck and she relented.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Ok,’ she said. ‘Ok. OK. Ok.’ Every time she spoke he kissed her somewhere new. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The whole way from the DA’s office to her apartment, his hands had been all over her. In the cab, it was a miracle they managed to escape with just a wolf whistle from the driver. It wasn’t a surprise they hadn’t made it to the bedroom.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire cleared her throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I need to change,’ she said. The men glanced at her like her state of undress had only just occurred to them. She couldn’t care less if they stared at her. She was more concerned that Jack McCoy would come waltzing out of her bedroom at a moment’s notice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She led Logan and Briscoe into her living room, careful to avoid the pile of clothes she’d dumped in the kitchen. She tried to kickstart her brain. The Dawson case? Her mind was blank. Was that the kid or the serial killer? Or was it the granny with a penchant for arsenic? It had to be something serious to drag the cops out here for her judgement at this hour. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Give me ten,’ she said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike gave her a look that said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>come on woman</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and she laughed, turning to walk to the bedroom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Five, then,’ she said, dramatically, ‘just for you boys.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She fumbled for the handle, then upon finding it, opened the door and shut it quickly. Jack was lying on the bed with his hands folded behind his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire leant against the closed door and exhaled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack watched her carefully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Anything I can help with?’ he said, in a whisper. She hated how husky his voice sounded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘No.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She walked over to the chest of draws and pulled a pair of pants from the top draw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As she dressed, she could hear Logan and Briscoe talking in the other room. They were speaking loud enough that they’d hopefully miss the whispered murmuring from the bedroom. At least, Claire prayed they would. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After collecting a shirt from the wardrobe, she sat on the end of the bed to fasten the buttons. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like he wanted to give her a fucking heart attack, Jack shifted his weight and crawled over to her. She glowered at him, as if to silently make him stay still. But he resisted, and moved so he was behind her. Quickly, his arms enveloped her body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Not the time,’ she said, as he rested his head in the crook of her neck. She popped two more buttons on her shirt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Stay,’ he said, languidly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘No can do.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Why?’ he whined. He pressed a lazy kiss to the shell of her ear as she leant forward to grab her necklace off the sideboard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Are you serious?’ she said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t reply, but kissed in the pulse point on her neck. His hands were around her abdomen, and it would’ve been easy, then, to give up and give in. To let him capture her, to fall to this rapturous failure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But as Jack moved his lips to her jaw, Mike Logan’s voice boomed out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Kincaid?’ he called, ‘You get sucked into the toilet or something?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She heard Briscoe laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack stilled behind her, sinking back down towards the bed. She stepped out of his embrace and swiped her hairbrush from beside the mirror. When she turned, running the brush through her wild hair, he was staring up at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’ll go when you’ve left,’ he said. It was like a switch had flicked in him. Jack was suddenly serious. Maybe Mike Logan had scared the shit out of him? Or maybe the idea of being discovered hiding in his ADA’s bed didn’t exactly appeal to him? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adam would have a fucking field day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘See you at the office,’ she said, quickly. She clasped her necklace and went towards the door. She paused on the threshold, wondering quite what would happen if she swung the door open only to find Mike or Briscoe right on the other side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It certainly wouldn’t be pretty. Claire knew she’d never, ever, live it down. Mike Logan would die before he let that happen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, thankfully, Briscoe and Logan were still in her living room. She went without a jacket, because the only one not in the laundry was crumpled into a ball on her kitchen floor. If the boys found that weird given it was January, they didn’t mention it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they walked towards the door, Claire was sure she’d dodged a bullet. She slipped her shoes on as Briscoe fiddled with the latch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Logan came to stand next to her. The door fell open and Briscoe stepped out into the corridor, while Claire fought a battle with her high heel, the lethargy of the darkness kicking in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike leant down so his face was at her level. Biscoe was already a yard away, or more, impatient to get going. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Counsellor?’ Logan said, feigning innocence. She met his gaze and the way he was looking at her made her feel like a kid, caught red handed. Together, they glanced at Briscoe, to make sure he couldn’t hear. Mike came closer. ‘Next time,’ he said, slowly, smugly, ‘make sure you remember the </span>
  <em>
    <span>tie</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked down. He had his hand outstretched, and right there was Jack’s blood red tie, balled up. Claire snatched it away. She stuffed it into her pocket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Don’t worry,’ Mike said, and there was an insufferable laugh at the edge of his voice, ‘Your secrets are safe with me.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swung round and walked out after Briscoe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire rolled her eyes. Then she slipped from the apartment after them. Outside the block, as she climbed into the police cruiser, she really wished she had a jacket. The ice cut into her, and she held back a shiver. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the front seat, Logan was laughing and looking at her in the rear-view. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She blamed Jack McCoy. She blamed him totally.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I think this was my favourite chapter to write so far, but I'd love to know what you think? </p>
<p>Thanks a million for any kudos/comments.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. let's not talk about this</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sometimes Claire wondered if she actually thought before she spoke. Ok, yeah - most of the time, go for it, she had it covered. She was a clever woman; her job was all about weighing truths, looking at the bigger picture, deciding outcomes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it honestly hadn’t crossed her mind that Adam would appoint Jack as the independent counsel on the Delbert case. Not all. When she’d suggested it in chambers, she’d thought the job would go to someone else in the office - anyone else. A Chinese Wall? Between her and Jack? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d nearly laughed Adam out the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were still working cases together, had motions to write, opening statements to prepare. And now this. Claire had spent the last eight days at her desk, instead of spending time in his office. It was at Adam’s insistence - one that she’d dutifully kept, for fear of torpedoing the case. She’d talked with Jack, on and off, but there was something between them - the wall, no doubt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d not been over to his place and he not to hers. They’d forced the rule, but it seemed harder and harder to maintain as the days passed. She’d catch him hanging in his doorway before he went home, watching her. She prayed that he’d make a break, snap the case in two, and the wall would come crumbling right on down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they could go back. Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>back,</span>
  </em>
  <span> things were good, they were. Claire was finding her footing with Jack, with the relationship. It was easy to be with him, despite his showmanship, despite his displays of grandeur. They’d lie in his bed and talk about things - about his childhood, his parents, and sometimes she’d tell him about her father, of whom she remembered little, and only in small flashes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire had rarely told people these stories. She’d certainly never felt tempted to tell Joel Thayer, who’d been more preoccupied by her silence or, failing that, hearing her admissions of blind devotion. Every relationship, it had been something to hold back, to keep as her history which belonged to no one else. Her father walked out on her, and she sometimes thought that left a hole she’d been trying to fix ever since. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she told Jack. She couldn’t look at him when she talked about it. The darkness was her courage, and his arms around her a comfort. Jack listened to her, and they’d stay there, still, with her head resting on his chest. And most of the time they should’ve been sleeping, because the clock on the mantle was ticking away the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In return, he would talk about his own father; the cop, with his large, thick hands for a weapon. About how Jack was never good enough for him, not as a man, not as a father, or a husband. Certainly not as a lawyer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You’re good enough for me,’ Claire said, one night, after he’d told her about the day of his law school graduation, when his father had turned away after Jack had gone to shake his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was easy to talk away the night, to find themselves wrapped in each other as the light slipped simply through the half closed blinds. His presence in her bed was solid, real, his arms around her body strong and taught. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now her evenings were lonely, and early nights seemed in order. No talking through the darkness after late night case conferences, no more histories and secrets. Eight days in and she was just starting to catch up on her sleep. She’d curl up on the couch and watch bad TV and wait for the phone to ring. Usually it was Adam, or sometimes Van Buren, and every time they summoned her back into Jack’s orbit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, she’d made it to ten and the phone was thankfully quiet. She had the TV on low, for the backdrop of blurred conversation it brought, and there were files relating to the Dwakins case laid out beside her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was tapping her pen against the couch arm when the knock came. At first, she’d thought it was on TV and ignored it. But then she glanced up, saw that the insanely tanned teenage surfer on the screen was thigh deep in the ocean and realised nobody was knocking there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire muted the TV and dragged herself up. She looked through the spyglass once, laughed to herself, and then pulled the latch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Jack. Who else? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Look,’ he said, leaning on the doorframe to stop her shutting him out. ‘I brought Chinese?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stared at him. He raised two plastic bags from the hall floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Chinese?’ she said. He had this ridiculous look on his face, like he was about to burst into laughter.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yes,’ he said, grinning. He tried to nod seriously but he failed. ‘I thought it was apt. You know, because of the wall.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire was of half a mind to leave him on the doorstep with his takeout. But he was smiling at her, stupidly smiling.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘We can’t talk about it,’ she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Does that mean I can come in?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Hmmm,’ she said, weighing it up. ‘Possibly.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Possibly?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘If Judge Ianello found out-’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack cut in, quickly, ‘He won’t.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Oh you’re clairvoyant now?’ she laughed, relenting a little and leaning back from the entryway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yep,’ he said, taking the hint and stepping forward into her apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was still holding the latch when he walked past and into the living room. With the door still open, she put her head in her hands and let out a soft chuckle. She’d known the moment she’d seen him through the distorted glass that she’d let him in. Truth be told, she would’ve allowed it even if he hadn’t brought Chinese. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time she made it into the living room, he had already started unpacking the takeout boxes onto her coffee table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You’re in a hurry,’ she said, falling down next to him on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Starving,’ he said, diving right into a packet of spring rolls, ‘I didn’t get to eat at lunch because of-’ He stopped suddenly and shot her a look. ‘Because of reasons,’ he added, cryptically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘The wall?’ she said, opening a portion of dim sum. He nodded and leant back on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘How was your day, then?’ he asked. ‘Mine was crap but I can’t tell you about it.’ Claire pushed herself up against the arm of the couch so that she could draw her knees up to her chest and still look at Jack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over the top of the carton, she said, ‘Judge Spivak’s being a pain in the ass,’ and shrugged.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I thought he sided with you on the severance motion?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘But not on anything else. He thought you’d be on the case.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘You’ll win it in a heartbeat.’ His confidence surprised her. The effortless way he believed in her, even if she didn’t herself - even if she thought Judge Spivak was right to be pissed a senior EADA wasn’t handling the case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if he could sense her uncertainty, Jack reached over and smoothed his hand over her cheek. He let it lie there, on the curve of the bone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I trust you,’ he said, solemnly. Claire covered his hand with her own and lowered it so she could kiss his palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Thank you, Jack,’ she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, they waited, suspended, sprawled across her couch. And she felt safe in that moment, safer than she’d ever felt with anyone in her entire life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Come on, Claire,’ he said, shifting his weight. ‘Let’s watch some crap TV.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she nodded. He leant his head on her shoulder. She let it rest there. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Chinese Wall mentioned is from 5x15. </p><p>Thanks to everyone who's read and kudos. I'm glad there's some people out there who are interested - given that Claire/Jack happened so long ago! Got to thank the 5USA repeats for getting me addicted to this show. </p><p>Any comments are greatly appreciated :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. the late show with logan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>‘You know they can put you on hold for life,’ Mike Logan said, swinging back in his chair. He jabbed at her with a pencil in the low light of the squad room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What? Rikers Island?’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Yeah, feels like a whole life sentence.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes at him and pulled absentmindedly at the telephone cord. Logan was right about one thing - the call was taking a long time. It was late, after ten, and the on-shift warden seemed little inclined to search their files for an inmate listing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A voice cracked on the line, asking for the name again. She sighed. Claire had already been through this twice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Lattimer,’ she said, ‘L-A-double T-M-E-R.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the other end of the phone, the bored sounding woman mulled over the name, momentarily, then drawled, ‘Let me have a look again.’ The now familiar </span>
  <em>
    <span>beep </span>
  </em>
  <span>echoed down the line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire lifted the receiver away from her ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I swear, if they put me on hold one more time.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Across the table, Logan laughed deeply and dramatically opened a case file. ‘I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>say.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Oh, you said? You said wait ‘til morning. I’d get caught out by every lawyer in New York county calling up. No way.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Only because you want to go running in with the case breaker.’ He looked up to meet her eye. ‘You wanna bet McCoy’ll give you a gold star?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire tapped her fingers against the table along with the high pitched drone of the ‘on hold’ beep. Something between her and Logan shifted at the mention of Jack - like there was something sharp in the air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You promised you’d keep your mouth shut,’ she said, trying hard to sound unconcerned. The office was far from empty, despite the fact Briscoe had hung his hat for the night - indeed, the light from Van Buren’s office was ominous at the end of the room. Not that Claire thought anyone here would go running to the DA, but it’d certainly start a rumour. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And rumours were worse than the truth, most of the time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I just said gold star,’ Logan said, defensively. ‘There’s plenty other things McCoy could be-’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She cut him off by pushing his shoulder, unbalancing his chair and leaving him scrabbling at the table.    </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Ok,’ he said, stabilised, putting his hands up. ‘I’ll play nice.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>play nice.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Hmm, maybe it’s not my strong suit.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stared at him, and the seriousness he was attempting to perfect crumbled. Logan shook his head in laughter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘But give it up, Claire,’ he said, ‘You and </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>What’s going on there? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shrugged, quickly, and crossed her legs, leaning back. He pushed himself across the table to follow her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He went on, regardless of her silence, ‘I think Olivet would have a field day with you.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire laughed, short and sharp, derisive. She arched an eyebrow to make him elaborate. He sighed, straightened up and lifted his hand to count. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Okay. Okay. You asked </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>nicely.’ He paused and she folded her arms, resting the phone receiver in the crook of her neck. Logan prepared his speech, and then dove right in. ‘One - he’s your boss. Two - about a hundred years old. Three - he’s screwed over every single ADA he’s ever worked with. Three points against. But I’ll give him the Yamaha ‘cause that’s actually pretty cool.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You’ve really thought about this.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I mean, with your history, nobody’s gonna be surprised, Claire.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She bit her lip and ran a hand across her eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Her history</span>
  </em>
  <span>. For a second, it was like Thayer’s ghost was standing between them. For a flicker, she could see Joel, reaching forward to lay his hands on her shoulder. She wondered if the stain he’d left on her would ever go away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire leant closer. ‘Is it really that obvious?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘The tie kinda gave it all away,’ Logan said, bringing it back to Jack. The spectre of Thayer faded, but she knew it would always hang there, just out of the picture. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Logan brought his fist down suddenly, so it thudded against the table. The noise gave Claire a start, but she looked around and saw that none of the other officer’s had even noticed. She guessed that was Mike’s point. He looked at her purposeful. ‘Nobody gives a damn. Nobody </span>
  <em>
    <span>should.</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shook her head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Schiff does.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Ah the old guy,’ Logan said, throwing his hands dismissively in the air. ‘He worships McCoy. You’re on safe ground there.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘And tell me, Mike, just how long have you understood the inner workings of the DA’s office?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘One of my many special talents.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wiggled his eyebrows and made her laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You know, you don’t have to keep it such a secret.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘No?’ She wanted to add, </span>
  <em>
    <span>are you crazy? </span>
  </em>
  <span>But she didn’t. Claire kind of thought the answer was yes, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He prodded her arm, to get her to look at him. He said, ‘Unless that’s part of the attraction - the sneaking around?’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Logan held his arms wide, with his eyebrows raised, in a ‘you know I’m right’ kind of gesture. She kicked him lightly under the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’m only trying to offer some advice to a friend in need.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’m not going for relationship advice from a guy who thinks he’s the Irish version of Hugh Grant.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Logan put his hands up to defend himself. ‘I never said that-’ but Claire laughed her way into interrupting him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Oh you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Briscoe may have got six beers in you, but you said it.’  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He huffed and went back to reading the case files. All evening, he’d been trying to get a handle on the Johnson case and any concrete way they could link her to both Lattimer and her husband’s death. Now he flicked in an ‘over the top’ way through the notes he’d been writing for the last couple hours. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She continued on hold for at least another ten minutes. She watched him read.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the beep slowly drove her insane, she thought more about what Logan had said. Claire wondered how long she and Jack could really keep it up. All the smoke and mirrors, the plausible deniability. They hadn’t talked about it. The past, sure, fine. But the future? No chance. Neither of them did long term. He had a list of broken hearts in his wake, and Claire, her record wasn’t exactly much different; she’d gone for unavailable guys before - guys for whom the moment was it, was enough. Jack wasn’t married, not to a woman, but he was damn close to his job. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was so much that Claire needed to sort before she started thinking differently. In a way, those men before, those men like Thayer, they’d been easy. Married. No hopers. There was never any leaving the wife, never any running out and running away. That suited her just fine. No complications. No plans, made to be broken. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No way she could get hurt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now there was Jack. However much she wanted to think of it as the same, she knew she was wrong. The job meant a lot to both of them - all those victories ready to be celebrated. But that wasn’t going to last the rest of their lives. There was going to be a tipping point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While she thought this over, the door to Van Buren’s office opened, and the woman herself strided over to Logan’s desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Are you guys planning an all nighter?’ she said, with her hands on her hips, a trace of surprise in her voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I don’t know about Kincaid,’ Logan said, putting his hands behind his head, ‘but I’m pretty much beat.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire gestured with the phone. ‘Still holding out, I’m afraid.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘But I got a pizza waiting with my name on it,’ he whined.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike started to fold the case files, piling them up at the center of the table. Then he swept his jacket off the back of his chair and stood up.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Can I not tempt you with a pepperoni hot?’ he asked. He looked first at Claire, then shifted his attention to Van Buren. ‘What about you, Lieu? You feeling a fancy Hawaiian this fine spring night?’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raised his eyebrows at her. But the Lieu wasn't having any of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Go home, Mike,’ Van Buren said affectionately. Claire smirked into the phone as Logan walked away, whistling a song from the 80s as he went. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Make sure you get that gold star, right Claire?’ he called in the doorway. He shot her a wide, knowing grin and disappeared. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That left Claire and Van Buren, who collapsed into one of the spare seats once the double doors swung shut after Logan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You should probably hang up,’ the older woman said. ‘The US Penitentiary system is notoriously slow around this time of night.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire relented and now the walking ‘I told you so’ otherwise known as Mike Logan was gone, she put the receiver in the cradle. The silence comforted her.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I guess I’ll call back tomorrow.’ =</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Sounds like you’ve got a good break in the Johnson case,’ Van Buren said, resting her hands on the table, overlaid. ‘Lennie let me know before he headed out.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’ll run it by Jack later,’ Claire said, nodding. ‘See what moves we’ve got left.’ She started to collect her things from the table, pulling the folders into order. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Where you headed?’ Van Buren asked, pushing up from the seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Oh, I’m catching the subway to the West Side.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘The subway?’ Van Buren looked mildly disgusted at the idea. ‘It’s almost eleven. I’ll give you a lift.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire started to refuse then realised it was a losing battle. Anita Van Buren already had her car keys out ready. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They walked down to the parking lot together. Claire would’ve had her own car, but she’d lent it to Jack when they’d split at the office. He’d drive it down to his house, she’d meet him there when she cut and ran from the precinct, whatever time that was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It turned out ‘whatever time’ was closer to midnight than she’d expected. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I thought you lived close to the DA’s office?’ Van Buren asked, halfway through the city. They’d stopped at a red light. The police officer glanced over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Yeah, I do.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire’s admission sat between them for a moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘If Mike’s giving you grief,’ Van Buren said, as the car rolled out from the junction, ‘just ignore him. That man’s going to end up pissing off half of the city by the time he retires.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire laughed. She looked out the window at the street lights slipping by. It wasn’t that Logan was up in her face, it was that, now, it wasn’t just between her and Jack - there was something tangible, something more real, about it. Not just the two of them and the midnight hour, lost to the blue haze. It felt more like something that could have a future. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, they stopped outside Jack’s apartment block. Just as Claire was about to pop the door and step out, Anita Van Buren leant across the car and stopped her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Watch out for yourself, Claire,’ she said. She nodded up at the apartment block. ‘I’m sure McCoy’s a good guy, but you know his reputation.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Oh sure I do.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You’re too good to let it go for him.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire nodded but didn’t say anything. Van Buren was smiling warmly. It was nice to have someone watching out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘How d’you know?’ she asked, turning back into the car for a moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘About you and Jack? Claire, I’ve been a police officer twenty years. I’m not blind.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire opened the door and stepped out. She leaned back down to say thank you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Don’t worry about it,’ Van Buren said. A moment later, she added, ‘Oh, and about Jack. Tell him he better have cracked the case by morning.' </span>
</p>
<p>Van Buren was smirking as Claire shut the car door. </p>
<p>
  <span>A moment later, she drove off, and Claire stood on the street laughing. Then she went to Jack.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>After writing chapter 4, I enjoyed writing the Logan &amp; Claire dynamic so much I brought it right back. I probably had the most fun writing this chapter, of any of them so far. </p>
<p>The Johnson case is taken from Purple Heart, 5x21. </p>
<p>If you enjoyed, please kudos/comment. It'd be great to know if people are liking the fic so far :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. safety</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She laid with him in the dark. They’d barely spoken since they’d come back to his apartment; just undressed with quiet reverence and climbed together onto the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was something about it - about the silence - which calmed her. They way he held her and kissed her cheeks and her jaw and her ribs like he was praying to them, each individually, without the need to say anything. There was something in the confidence of his eyes when he looked at her that made Claire feel alive. She watched him as the light slipped away from them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d driven them from the office, and they’d talked little in the car. The Gaines case weighed heavy, even though they’d finally put it behind them, even though today signalled the end. And maybe that was why they hadn’t felt the need to talk - for fear of what they would say; for fear she would ask him about ethical lines and bad motherhood and loving so much it ceased to be love and became something else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before she met Jack she thought that was all crap. She really did. She thought that if you loved someone you loved them, and sometimes that love faded, and sometimes it dimmed - but that it couldn’t crystallize that way, it couldn’t harden and carbonise a heart like that. It couldn’t leave you with hate, and nothing else. Claire had never loved someone that much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She kept thinking about what he had said, in the elevator when they were walking out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where do you think all the hate comes from? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claire wondered about the women who had shared this bed with him before her. Had he ever loved and hated them - had he watched as they slipped from the room like auburn autumn light? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was no use pretending that she was the only one, that there’d never been women Jack McCoy had loved. But she hadn’t asked about them; it was a no go. She had no interest in learning their names and their fates. Her brief encounter with Sally Bell had taught her that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire reached up, twisting so she laid her elbows on his chest. Here, she could see his face. He was looking up at the ceiling. She had thought he was asleep, could’ve sworn it. But his eyes were open. She had wanted to watch him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked. His voice was soft, softer than she’d known it.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She rested her chin on his collar bone. His eyes traced her movements. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You,’ she said, quietly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raised an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Me?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Hmmm.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Good, I hope.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t say anything. He placed his hand on her back, running his fingers slowly down the ridges of her spine. He traced the skin there like he was counting the bones, one after the other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He said, ‘I wouldn’t have done it, you know that don’t you?’ and for a moment, she didn’t know what he was talking about. Jack wouldn’t meet her eye, even when she searched for his gaze. He put the plane of his hand against her hip and stilled. ‘I wouldn’t have put Capetti’s mother on the stand. I wouldn’t have done it.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked into his face. They’d argued about this before - and it had seemed minor, like you couldn’t even call it a fight. Standing outside Capetti’s mother’s house, right there in the middle of the street, she’d told him he was practically supporning perjury. He’d thrown her the car keys, nonchalantly, and Claire had realised that for Jack, victories came at all costs - they were tough and hard fought and sometimes that line, that black and white line between lawful and unlawful, it wasn’t so easy to see. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire thought it was kind of like the line between love and hate. So easy to cross without realising. It scared her how simple that step seemed.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know. I know.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She kissed the sharp line of his jaw bone and pulled away. Jack let her go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire pulled her knees up to her chest and followed his figure in the dark. He sat up, leaning back on the headboard, the sheet pooled at his waist. Moonlight dripped from the bottom of the blinds onto his chest, and in luminescent cuts across his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘The way you talked about Karen Gaines,’ she asked, ‘have you ever loved someone like that?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lowered his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Sometimes,’ he said. He shrugged. ‘My ex-wife?’ he added, but it sounded more like a suggestion. They had talked rarely about his wives, and little on the subject of his daughter, who seemed sometimes to exist only when Jack was drunk and melancholy. As if the weight of his inadequacy was only bearable then, when he thought he may not remember the next day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would say to her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Claire, I’ve fucked it. You must know I didn’t mean to hurt them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack took a deep breath. He spoke self-effacingly. ‘I hated who I became, when I was with her. At the end. It’s not a man you’d recognise, Claire.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Was it work?’ she asked. She had seen first hand the way he got when they were deep in a case, the way the twist and turns of court dictated his mood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed, just a little. ‘It was me, I think. That way I get. She had enough of it.’ He shrugged again and ran a hand down the back of his neck. ‘I’m not proud of it.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’m sorry.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Don’t be.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He let his arms rest at his side. There was something defeated in the way he sat. Claire knew him. They had been lovers for almost a year. To him there was only winning. He wouldn’t entertain anything else. It had been struck into him as a child, and nevermind the man he became, there was no getting away from it. Watching him, Claire tried to figure how a divorce fitted into a man who chased victory in everything he did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, in her more cynical moments, she wondered if she was something he had won. A prize he had claimed once their little game had been over. That if every time they went to bed together, it was the end of a battle she wasn’t aware she’d been fighting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked over at him. He had his eyes closed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘It’s not the same,’ he said, with his head leant backwards. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What?’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘The way I loved her, Rebecca’s mother.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Not the same as what?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She thought he was going to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>the same as the way Karen Gaines loved her husband. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She had already worked out a response, a cutting joke to clear the atmosphere which had fallen on them with the darkness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he didn’t. He was unpredictable. He opened his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘The same as how I love you.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She blinked at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had believed that had been a game, too. How quickly could he make her say it. A challenge, something he would prise out of her eventually. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There had been times when they’d been laughing on a Saturday morning before work, when they’d laughed until their stomachs hurt, that she had considered saying it. But it had seemed like giving a victory to him, like falling too fast without a safety net. It had seemed too easy to love him and equally as difficult to say it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack reached out and she slipped her hands into his. The palms of his hands were cold and soft. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They sat like that for a moment, in the dark. Both on the bed, but apart. Her knees were still drawn up to her chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two of them watched each other keenly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She said. ‘I love you too,’ and he kissed the inside of her wrist instinctively. The darkness threw its arms around the pair of them, and swept them up together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire Kincaid knew then that love wasn’t something that you won. That it wasn’t a game to be played. There were no victories and no losses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was just the way it hurt. The way it hurt like happiness. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Gaines case is from 6x01. </p>
<p>Kudos and comments are life.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. and the distance i've run</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She’d thought about calling to say she was sick at least ten times. She even thought about it in the car, about what would happen if she just stopped and climbed out, refused to go. But she could hear Mac’s voice in her head, saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>Claire, it’s one meal. She’s your mother. Just come. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’d been a hell of a week. Oh, the kind of week that nightmares were made of. She could’ve been sick. She was pale enough in the rear-view. But there was no use in it, in cutting out at the eleventh hour. It would just leave her deflecting phone calls for days until she and her mother agreed another date, another meal that Claire would probably rather tear her eyes out than attend. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One night. She rolled into the driveway. It couldn’t be that hard, right? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’d been a part of her - the rebellious, childish part of her - that had entertained bringing Jack to dinner. Oh god, the look on her mother’s face would’ve been priceless. Claire could imagine it as she sat in her car outside. Jack, confident, trying too hard to impress - and her mother, complaining yet again at how </span>
  <em>
    <span>unsuitable </span>
  </em>
  <span>the </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy </span>
  </em>
  <span>she brought home was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Claire hadn’t asked him. They’d not exactly seen eye to eye recently. She remembered him before she left: her head buried into his chest, his arms strong around her body, eyes accusing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We won, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We won. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And she had wanted to believe him. But to Claire, it was impossible to find a victory in death, no matter how justified. Jack had no such qualms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Sandig</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The sentence sat with them, heavy and disconsolate. It was a ghost on the back of her neck while she bared herself to Jack, while she lost herself in him. It hung around her body like a weight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had watched her while she’d readied to go out. He’d been lying on the bed, and his eyes had been open pools, bright, intense. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘One day, let’s go to the Catskills, Claire,’ he had said. She looked at him in the mirror. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What are you talking about?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Not now,’ he said, rushed. ‘Later. Let’s go, though. I’ll drive us up and it can just be you and me.’ Claire picked her earrings from the box and held them in the palm of her hand. Jack was animated, his hands wild, stark in the half light. ‘None of this crap. Me and you. Fuck the law for a while.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had smiled. He seemed enraptured by his own plan, like he could see it mapped out before him. And Claire wished it to be true, but she knew they wouldn’t go. It was a dream, an escape they’d never make because there was always more paperwork, and overtime, more cases and victories and losses. There was always the two of them and the desk in the courthouse, and that was the only constant, the only promised thing in her entire life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Yes,’ she said, anyway, turning to face him. She crawled onto the bed despite the fact she was wearing neatly ironed pants, and kissed his face. ‘Yes. One day. Let’s go.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she should’ve asked him then. Said, ‘Jack, come meet my mother, my step-father.’ She should’ve invited him into her past, pushed the door open and let him walk straight on through. But she bit her tongue, she stole herself away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sandig stayed between them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the car, outside her mother’s house, she turned the heater off and popped the door. It was cold outside; the winter air bit easily through her flimsy jacket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the door, she exchanged greetings with Mac, and then went to find her mother and say hello. It had been the first time she’d been to the house since Thanksgiving. It wasn’t odd that it’d been months. Claire avoided this place if she could help it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her mother was sitting by the fireplace, straight up, watching some soap on the flickery TV perched in the corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Hey ma,’ Claire said, sitting beside her on the couch. ‘Made it early.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘There’s always a first time,’ her mother said. They didn’t embrace, or kiss each other on the cheek. It’d been a long time since Claire and her mother had been physically close. Years. They’d drifted, all this time, and it had seemed easy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was like Claire had screened her life, partitioned sections - re-told and rewrote the key points, skipped the more questionable actions. It was a protection instinct. There’d been things Claire had done of which she wasn’t proud. She had no intention of allowing her mother to see that side, those things. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ her mother said, looking away from the TV. On the screen, the colours caught and burned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Of course I came.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mac walked into the room. He said the food was ready. It seemed like a small mercy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They ate at the dining room table, which was new and Claire didn’t recognise. They mostly talked about the French lessons which Mac had been going to on a Wednesday afternoon. Claire’s mother had spoken Italian, once, but didn’t anymore. She wasn’t sure that her husband needed to learn something else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘The law’s practically another language, anyway,’ her mother said. Mac laughed, from somewhere deep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I mean you’re not wrong,’ Claire said. Her mother nodded pensively, as if she was surprised her daughter had taken her side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘The two of you,’ she said, waving her arms dismissively between Claire and Mac, ‘with your fancy terms and your volumes of books, I don’t pretend to understand it.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire smiled into her glass, and glanced up at her step-father. He’d been part of her life since she was fifteen years old. At first just a guy her mother had brought home - funny and bright - but he was supposed to be temporary, passing through. And then he’d stuck, because he’d been the first person in the two years since Claire's father walked out who could actually make her mother smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she’d been sixteen, the summer Mac moved in, she’d took him to one side and said, ‘When I grow up I’m going to be just like you,’ and it had seemed stupid, then, so young, that she’d laughed - laughed at the ridiculousness of it. But Mac had helped her, pulled her up. He’d told her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>girl, you can do anything you want to do. Just set a watch and run.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the table, her mother reached for the unopened bottle of wine on the counter, then said, ‘Dare I ask about your personal life?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire froze. Just for a flicker. Her mother began to pour the wine, skipping right over the stumble her words caused. Claire shot a look at Mac, who was studiously staring down into his plate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Oh, nothing special, ma.’ She raised her glass, just some cheap cola, to her mouth and drank quickly to avoid having to elaborate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You shouldn’t spend so much time cooped up in that office. Mr Stone needs to realise you have a life.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire choked on her drink. She ran through her memory, sure that she must’ve told her mother that Ben had quit on her. It’d been a little over a year. Had she’d been denying Jack so much that she’d seriously not mentioned it?  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Mr Stone’s gone,’ she said. A quick look at Mac told her that he already knew. He took the bottle of wine from her mother before she overfilled the glass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘He wanted to spend more time with his kids, didn’t he Claire?’ Mac said, filling the quiet. ‘I heard something about it at the college.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire nodded. She pushed her food around on her plate. She wasn’t hungry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘So a new boss. That must’ve been tricky?’ her mother said, trying hard to keep the conversation going. Claire and Mac were sharing increasingly complex looks, as she attempted to ascertain how much about Jack he knew. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Yes,’ Claire said, feigning confidence, ‘Mr McCoy.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her mother turned to the other side of the table, holding serving tongs filled with green beans in her grasp. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Do you know him, Mac?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The green beans hit the plate with an unfortunate watery splash. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Oh, no. Reputation only.’ He reached to refuse more vegetables. ‘Jack McCoy’s got quite the reputation, hasn’t he Claire?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughed, she couldn't help it. It didn’t exactly help her cause. Her mother’s gaze was on her, searching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Is he kind?’ she asked. ‘He doesn’t have you working all the hours God sent? You look exhausted, love.’ She stared intently across the table, as if she was weighing up her daughter’s appearance and working out how much to blame on this </span>
  <em>
    <span>new boss</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’m fine, ma.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘So pale.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘It’s been one of those weeks. Work was crazy.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Hmmm,’ her mother said, unconvinced. ‘No time for boyfriends, then?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire shrugged. She had always hated talking about her personal life with her mother. They weren’t exactly close enough to sit and examine the ups and downs of romance together. Claire had been very careful when she’d been with Joel, she hadn’t told anyone - it had been her secret, one she’d have rather liked to take to her grave. But the censure case, that had made it all go up in smoke. Mac had told her the news had spread like wildfire. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’d been in the papers. That’s how her mother had found out. Claire had avoided the house for at least a month, but Mac’s birthday had rolled around and she’d been loathed to miss it. Five seconds into the afternoon and her mother had looked her right in the eye, she hadn’t been angry, and said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>how can you be like your father? How could you do it? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Claire’s heart had sunk, because she’d never thought about it like that, she’d never weighed up that history. </span>
</p>
<p><span>It had been an affair; why her father left. Her mother never said, but Claire had known.</span> <span>Everything gone overnight, every presence of her father stripped from the house; photos burned, clothes thrown out. The man himself had gone to work one morning and never returned. Claire hadn’t been allowed to write, and anyway, her mother said he didn’t want to talk to her. A clean break. That’s what they said. Best for all. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>So how was she to know what she’d inherited? That lax moral code, that ability to lie with a person who belonged to someone else. Was that the part of her father which remained, the gene which made it easy to keep that guilt locked away? Thayer had been the last in a long succession of inappropriate men.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’d been boys - ones she’d brought home before. The heavily tattooed quarterback in freshman year of high school. The one who’d broken up with her at seventeen when she’d told him she wanted to be a lawyer, who said, ‘Girls aren’t supposed to be smart’. The soldier - who could forget him - who had written her a break up letter the day after she’d turned twenty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of them had been here, sat at this table and disappointed her mother. And they’d been like Thayer, not married, but always unavailable in one way or another. Maybe there’d been something of that in Jack McCoy, something that had attracted her to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘That job will work you to an early grave,’ her mother said, and she glanced at Mac as if she wanted him to back her up. He wasn’t drawn so easily. ‘You deserve to be happy.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I am happy,’ Claire said, quickly. She thought about Jack, about the way she felt alive when he held her. The way she looked forward to hearing his voice, even after a fight - even after she looked him in the eye and knew they’d never agree on the death penalty, not as long as she lived. She thought about the way they had both said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, before she’d left and it had felt easy, dangerously easy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her mother went to say something, but Mac jumped in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Dessert,’ he said, clapping his hands together noisily. ‘Come on, Claire - help an old man get an apple pie out the oven.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her mother waved them away. Claire got up from the table and followed her step-father to the kitchen. She watched from the doorway as he crouched by the oven. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Another five minutes,’ he said, wafting steam from away from his face. Claire thought they’d go back into the other room, to her mother, but Mac was looking at her as he closed the oven. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Tell me about McCoy,’ he said, and he spoke precisely, as if he was worried he might make a mistake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire crossed her arm. She bit her lip so sharply she thought it might bleed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had wondered how long it’d take her step-father to come round to this subject. They’d been confidants before, and she’d admitted to him things she’d have never told her own mother in a million years. He had been her rock, her go to for advice - when she’d been eighteen, just about to head to collage, it’d been him she’d run to. In all those years since Mac Geller had been someone to turn to when things didn’t shake out the way she’d been expecting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’m not going to tell you what you already know,’ she said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raised an eyebrow. His bones creaked as he stood up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘So not just a reputation?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She blushed by way of answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Claire,’ he started, and she could hear the warning in his voice just from that one word. ‘Claire, I told you not to go getting mixed up with people </span>
  <em>
    <span>like that</span>
  </em>
  <span>, again. After Thayer-’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Thayer was a bastard.’ Claire spoke quickly, and to the point. Mac sighed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘In the end, yes. But, you clearly didn’t think that at the start.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She leant heavily against the doorframe. He was reasoning like a lawyer, sharp and clean. It was hard to argue with him. There was half of her that wanted to fight this - tell him that she wasn’t a kid, that he had no influence about who she took to bed, that he had no right to say she didn’t know her own mind. But he was only looking out for her. Claire had a history all of her own and it wasn’t exactly shining resplendent with happy endings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I never loved him,’ she said, and she was watching the tiles on the floor. The weight of Mac’s gaze was too heavy to speak through. ‘Joel. I never did.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second part of her declaration stood between them. The inevitable, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but with Jack, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which Claire could not bring upon herself to say. For some reason, the words tripped on her tongue and stuck like sawdust to the roof of her mouth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love him, I love him, I love him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Three words. It seemed all too easy to choke on them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They belonged to the darkness of her apartment, to three am under the comforter, or wrapped up in the sheets. They belonged to an after dark world, to a silent time where she and Jack were just themselves, alone with the sound of their breathing in time. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span> belonged whole heartedly to that world Jack had described earlier, to the place where he said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>let’s go to the Catskills, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like a prayer, over and over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’ll take him for a drink, then, one of these days,’ Mac said, kneeling in front of the oven to rescue the apple pie. He looked at her and smiled, deeply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Oh, don’t do that,’ she said, but she was laughing. ‘Mac, you don’t have to.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He put the pie on the stove top and turned to face her. He crossed his arms to try and seem intimidating. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’ll ask him his intentions.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘No!’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Then I’ll request he protects your honor?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Too late.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’ll tell him not to hurt you, then.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You sound like a dad from a crappy romcom, Mac.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Perfect.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire laughed. She laughed so hard, all the way back to her mother’s dining room table with Mac’s pie in her arms. She laughed and her face turned red and her mother asked, ‘What happened?’ and Claire never did explain. Beside her, Mac blamed it on something inconsequential. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the evening passed quickly. Her mother knew she’d missed something but she didn’t push it. Claire wondered if Mac would tell her, later, once she’d left. Part of Claire didn’t even mind it. It would be easier that way. Maybe that was the reason she’d not denied it to Mac, to let it slip just that little bit? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She helped with the washing up, and her mother sang songs from decades ago. For a moment it had been happy, easy. And as always, Claire wondered why she’d feared the trip so much. But it hit, later, when she was saying goodbye and her mother had that faraway look in her eye again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a ghost between Claire Kincaid and her mother. The man who had given her that name; the name that made her stand out in a house full of Gellers. The name which Claire had fought for, once upon a time, when her mother had wanted it to disappear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was never any getting past it. Anytime Claire had asked, she’d been shot down, cried at, screamed at. Her father was a no-go. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>how could you be like him? - </span>
  </em>
  <span>how could she be like a man she did not know? It weighed too heavy, because of the way her mother had said it and understood what she meant, and the way Claire never would, not completely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She waved to her mother and Mac on the doorstep. She made false promises to come back soon. Mac told her to watch herself at work, and he wasn’t just talking about case law. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In her car she played the radio too loud as she drove back towards the city. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she opened her apartment door, it was dark. Claire saw his shoes by the door, unmoved from the previous evening. It was late, a Saturday night; the kitchen smelled like burnt toast and sweet and sour sauce. The lights were off and she flicked them on as she went. She walked to her bedroom and pushed the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was lying spread out on the bed, his hands under the pillow. It always managed to surprise her: the way Jack McCoy slept like a child when he slept in her bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She undressed quickly and slipped under the comforter. He moved to let her rest between his arms, in a sleepy, lethargic way. She was cold against him, from the winter night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘How was it?’ he said, muffled, into her shoulder blade. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Hmmm. Okay.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kissed the back of neck lazily, then said. ‘I’m sorry.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Don’t be.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sharp angles of his body - his hips and ribs and knees - jutted into her, in a way that should’ve felt uncomfortable, but was in fact the opposite. She closed her eyes as he rested a hand across her abdomen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laid there listening to him breathing for a while. Until the shallow rise and fall on his chest levelled and she was sure he had fallen back asleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Let’s go,’ she said, as she followed him to the darkness, ‘Let’s go. One of these days we’ll run away, Jack.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t awake. A moment later, neither was she. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Sandig case is from 6x03, where Jack and Claire argue about the death penalty.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. the prosecution rises</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jack looked at her across the table and his eyes were dark. The bar was busy around them but it was easy to just see him; arched forward, his body taught like a current of electricity ran through him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Can I ask you a question?’ she asked. Her voice was raspy, deep. She spoke quietly and hoped he would hear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Fire away,’ he said, and his face set easily into a smirk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Claire could speak, Jack leant forward, so that his elbows were resting on the table. His face was close to hers, close enough that his breath ghosted across cheek. It was almost imperceptible, like a phantom touch, like he wanted to kiss her but couldn’t, not here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire pulled away, slightly, so she could look at him properly. His tie was slipping, his sleeves rolled up. His eyes were deep, dark pools which traced her every movement. He didn’t look away and did not flinch when she said, ‘Tell me about Shelley Cates.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cates</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Ever since Claire’d been at the hospital with that woman she’d wanted to ask. The easy way they were together, the quick looks and sharp, meaningless kisses - the way she called him </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jack </span>
  </em>
  <span>and not </span>
  <em>
    <span>McCoy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There’s a simple kind of intimacy in that, and while it didn’t spark jealously, it did spark curiosity</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I knew her in law school,’ he said, like that answered the question. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he must’ve known, what Claire really wanted to know. ‘She sat in front of me in property law, freshman year. She gave me her notes, pages and pages of them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that woman take a break, not in thirty years.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘That’s a long time, Jack,’ she said. ‘She always been quite so manic?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Shelley’s like a terrier,’ he said. He tapped against the table. ‘She knows what she wants and she goes and gets it.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Like you?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack laughed and threw his head back, his face splitting into a grin. ‘I guess you could say that.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire picked her drink up and swirled the glass. It was red wine, bitter and cheap. She didn’t drink it.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He said, ‘She’s just a friend,’ and nodded to himself like everything was that simple. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You kiss all your friends?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Only to make you jealous.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack was smirking, and he reached with his left hand across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The pads of his fingers smoothed across her cheek, and it nearly did enough to distract her. Instinctively she leant into him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Jack?’ she said, resting her hand in the crook of his elbow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Hmm?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Is Cates an ex?’ she asked, striving to sound offhand. She leant back in her seat and his hand fell to the table with a soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stared at him, waiting. There was no use talking around it. He was the one who’d mentioned the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>jealous</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And maybe she’d said it wasn’t at play, that she was above it. But Shelley Cates wasn’t like all of Jack’s exes, who slipped in and out of shot, hiding. She was out there in the open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack glanced to his right in order to avoid Claire’s searching look. In the end, he shrugged and said, ‘Maybe,’ like he wasn’t even sure himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Maybe?’ She shook her head smiling. ‘Sometimes I wonder if every defense lawyer we come across is your ex.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Even Norman Rothenberg?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughed. ‘Especially Norman Rothenberg.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack shifted in his seat, folding the sleeves of his shirt higher. ‘What I want to know,’ he said, and she could hear him trying to sound serious, ‘is whether you know that you’re more attractive when you’re jealous.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’m not jealous!’ She put her hands up to defend herself but that just made him look at her with an infuriating smugness. She laughed, shaking her head. ‘I’m. Not. Jealous.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raised a suggestive eyebrow and his hands snaked towards her across the table. She matched him, curled forward conspiratorially. Their hands twisted around each other, strong, certain. He circled the life lines on her palm, softly, as if he didn’t even realise he was doing it. In response, she laid her fingertips in the hollow of his wrist, on the pulse point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked up at her and his hand stilled. He smelled strongly of sandalwood and whiskey, which seemed intoxicating to Claire; much more than her disappointing, abandoned glass of wine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack held her gaze, as if they were waiting for the other to look away. When neither didn’t, he reached under the table and put the palm of his hand on her thigh. The movement was sudden, and she found herself unable to tell him to stop. He pushed the hem of her skirt up a fraction of an inch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Jack.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Tell me you’re jealous,’ he said.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Jack</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’ She went to move his hand away, but he went higher. His hands were cold and her skin warm and there was something in the sharpness of his touch, as he crept upwards with slow, precise certainty. She couldn’t look away from him, even when she felt a violent blush rise.    </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Tell me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘No.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘No?’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice was low, teasing. She would’ve laughed at the ridiculousness; the busy bar, the conversation topic, the brazen disregard for privacy, but his voice was so serious, like it caught in the back of his throat. His fingers slipped against the bare skin of her leg. He stilled his hand, steady, watching. He waited patiently, with wide, dark eyes.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘This isn’t a game,’ she said. Despite her words, she still couldn’t make herself push him away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And anyway, he seemed to ignore her plea. He bent his head so that he could whisper in her ear. ‘I remember when we ran into Sally, last year. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I remember.</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire bit her lip. Around them, people were moving around - heading back and forth from the bar. There was a football match playing in the corner. But all she could see was Jack, like her world had reduced in size - just to him. Him and his touch and his words and the way he said, ‘I remember’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She remembered Sally Bell too. A precursor, someone who’d worked with Jack the same way, shared his bed too. Claire tried not to think about it. If she did, she started to feel like the replacement - and she knew Jack and she knew his reputation, had known his reputation first. She knew the lists, the three ADA’s, the pattern. The woman on the reception desk who’d told her, laughing, ‘You know McCoy, he’d chase every woman in this office if he could.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there was something in the man sitting in front of her, the one with his hand on her leg, his voice in her ear, that was dangerous. She’d known it the moment she’d met him; maybe before. Maybe since Adam Schiff had said, ‘McCoy’s requested you,’ and sent her off on her merry little way. Since they’d stood on either side of that office and admitted they knew each other’s reputations - their black book histories marked with mistakes - and walked right towards each other anyway.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What happened with Sally?’ Claire asked, and she knew the evening was poised on a knife edge. She’d refused to ask the question before, out of self-preservation, as if knowing would plot her own failure out like a manual; a well worn street that could lead her inevitably to the same place it had taken Sally Bell and Shelley Cates. Somewhere she didn’t want to go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘She left me for legal aid,’ Jack said, smartly, then he paused like he was thinking. He fiddled absentmindedly with the hem of her skirt, with deft, quick fingers. Her skirt was now pushed up until it almost met the curve of her hip. After a moment he added, with a shrug, ‘She wasn’t you.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You didn’t know me then.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He replied, sharp as anything, without a hitch, without even a second to breathe. ‘Still no match, Claire.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked up suddenly, serious. She was taken aback at the abruptness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. He pushed the half-full glasses into the centre of the table. She missed the feel of his hand against her skin. She shivered and he said, ‘It’s too busy.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Jack-’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘We’ll go to my apartment. The bike’s in the parking garage.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Jack-’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I know it’s not a game anymore.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She opened her mouth and then closed it. He had his palms laid on the table in front of him. The ring on his finger caught in the harsh bar light. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He said, looking down, ‘Please don’t leave me.’ And for a second he seemed not to be Jack McCoy, kick ass lawyer, but Jack McCoy, who had never been enough - not for his father, or for his daughter or for Sally Bell who had left him for legal aid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire didn’t say anything. He took her hand and stood up. The atmosphere was heavy, weighted. It seemed more than the moment they had said ‘I love you,’ because that had promised happiness and here he was talking about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>end. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hadn't thought of it. The leaving and the staying. Only things being as they were, and that they were in a good place. The right place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wondered what had made him say it. Had it been the questions, or something else, something deeper. She wondered how many people had left him over the years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They held hands in the doorway of the bar. He looked over his shoulder at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire reached forward to press a kiss to his lips. She held the collar of his shirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I won’t,’ she said, and she was close enough again to smell his cologne. ‘I won’t leave you Jack.’ </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy Holidays! </p>
<p>Hope you enjoyed the chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. strike out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A free Friday evening, a rare thing in the hallowed halls of the New York DA’s office. No plans, no dinners, no motions to write or warrants to draft. Just one evening of nothing, because Adam Schiff said, ‘Get out of my hair for a couple of hours,’ while he tried to fix mistakes Jack had made three years back. </p>
<p>That mistake was Diana Hawthorne, and it had been two days since Claire took her plea. It should have been over but it wasn’t. It was the start of something else, of looking back, of fending off lawsuits and internal investigations. </p>
<p>Claire remembered what Schiff said to her, right back at the start of this. When things were games and the prize seemed inevitable. Some mistakes are better not made twice. And this was it, this was the mistake. Loving Jack McCoy enough to do anything for him. To do anything and to justify it. </p>
<p>Diana was what Claire could become, the woman Jack McCoy made without even realising. Fashioned from admiration and the need for gratitude, to impress, to be loved back with the whole force of how you loved. And Jack, he would never know the weight of that.Your boss and your lover, that’s quite the influence. It was something he couldn’t understand, even if he tried. </p>
<p>They went to a bowling alley on their evening off. Her and Jack. Took a cab through the iced up city, reeling from the aftermath of Christmas, still with a handful of hungover lights draped over apartment balconies and trees. The warm glow illuminated the darkness like little puddles of nostalgia. Claire watched them with her face pressed up against the window, with Jack’s arm around her shoulder. </p>
<p>She’d spent Christmas working. Drowned in paperwork while the carols blared out of the radio. Jack came round and they flipped through files side by side. And they’d never said, let’s spend the day together, but they did. And it was like an accident. She told herself it didn’t mean anything. No Christmas lunch, no paper crowns and presents exchanged. Just the two of them, and the steady warmth of Christmas that wasn’t a Christmas, that didn’t feel like one. </p>
<p>The two of them had fallen asleep next to her anemic, lightless tree, and he’d said, ‘Claire, Claire,’ as her eyes were closing. She thought he said, I love you, but it could’ve been a dream. She wished she’d said it back. </p>
<p>They’d been to a bowling alley a couple times before. Somewhere to just have fun, to laugh. In the early days, it’d been a battleground of saying and not saying, of seeing how much they could get away with. And here they were, the afternoon stretched out in front of them, and she wanted to say they weren’t watching out for that pager beep, but she knew they were. They always were. </p>
<p>Jack hated the shoes. </p>
<p>‘They make me look like a clown, Claire.’ </p>
<p>‘Oh part of the attraction,’ she said, lightly pushing him in the shoulder as he tied the laces. They were sitting on a couch by the lane, and he was so close beside her that if she looked up she could kiss him. But she didn’t. </p>
<p>They were big believers in plausible deniability. Every dinner date, supermarket shop, they had a backup, a plan, in case they ran into someone they knew - work was the usual explanation, despite the wine on the table or the shampoo in her basket. Work. Only together to talk about work. </p>
<p>Claire doubted that they’d be accosted by some defence lawyer in a place like this, but you could never be 100% sure. They’d once been at a cinema on the east side and bumped into Danielle Melnick, but Jack had saved them because he and Melnick went way back. She wasn’t going to report them to the bar society anytime soon. </p>
<p>She thought a lot of people knew but nobody ever said. And silence was as good as secrecy these days. </p>
<p>Claire was sure she and Jack were breaking about half a dozen the rules, just sitting here in this bowling alley. A walking ethics violation, that was the two of them, grounds for appeal for a hundred different cases. But all they were doing was tying shoe laces, slowly, and laughing at how stupid they made him look. </p>
<p>No harm in that. Right? </p>
<p>And there’d been no harm in Diana Hawthorne until she stepped over that line. </p>
<p>Jack bowled first. Neither of them were exactly good at it. He hit three pins and a further three with his second shot. It was almost weird to see him do badly at something, to see him struggle, to hold the bowling ball in his hand and laugh at how useless he was. </p>
<p>She was marginally better. Her father had taken her bowling when he was little, but that had taken a nosedive when he’d left. With Jack, their mutual awfulness was kind of the attraction. It was just fun to do something that wasn’t rehersersed or pre-prepared the way the courtroom was - and a bowling game was something they wanted to win, but there were no stakes, no consequences when he rolled that ball straight in the gutter. </p>
<p>‘You’re too good at this,’ he said, running a hand through his hair and sitting down on the cracked leather couch.   </p>
<p>‘I’m really not,’ she said, waiting for the machine to spit the balls out. </p>
<p>‘You’ll get a strike, first off,’ he said. </p>
<p>‘No.’ </p>
<p>‘You say that…’</p>
<p>Her face split into a grin. Jack was pulling at his tie, fighting to get it off. He popped three of his shirt buttons and stuffed his tie into his briefcase. And without that, maybe they weren’t Jack and Claire - two lawyers out for a single evening of freedom - they were Jack and Claire, a couple, just out on a date. </p>
<p>She watched him for a moment. His face was a map of crease lines when he smiled. There was something in that. Claire liked making him smile. </p>
<p>‘Why are you staring at me?’ he said, and he was laughing. He glanced behind his shoulder to see if that was what she was looking at.</p>
<p>‘I’m not,’ she said, even though she was. She was staring at him and thinking, how easy it would be to spend the rest of my life with this man. And that surprised her, because she’d never thought about it before. It was this fleeting, heart beating, moment, which passed easy. It was stupid to think that far ahead. Things could change on a dime. Diana had three years before she struck out. Claire hadn’t even made it to two. </p>
<p>Jack was smiling again. She wondered how many hearts that smile had broken? </p>
<p>‘You are,’ he said. ‘Is it some kind of intimidation tactic? Because, Claire, I’m already bad enough at bowling. I don’t need mind tricks.’ </p>
<p>‘I’m just looking at you,’ she said, shrugging. She picked up a bowling ball and turned back towards him. </p>
<p>He was smirking. ‘Clearly,’ he said, raising an eyebrow, ‘I’m just wildly attractive.’</p>
<p>They both laughed. She laughed so hard her cheeks ached.</p>
<p>‘Clearly,’ she said. He nodded, but he was smiling too hard to look serious. </p>
<p>Claire hit a spare in her first two bowls. Jack pouted because he was already losing. By the time half the game was gone, Claire had hit a couple strikes and Jack was still struggling to get spares. </p>
<p>‘I need a drink,’ he said, when the pins dropped and the machine announced Claire had bowled another strike. </p>
<p>‘You just can’t take being beat.’ </p>
<p>‘Got it in one.’ </p>
<p>He went to the bar to order. He came back with two beers, and handed one to her. They sat together on the couch, and she curled into him. Instinctively, he put his arm around her. The alley was nearly empty, save a few families on the far end with noisy kids. And it didn’t seem to matter, then, if someone saw; if by some fate of luck, a lawyer swaggered into the bar with his entire office following in his wake. All that mattered was the way she felt in this moment, fuck all of the rest of it. Screw plausible deniability. </p>
<p>Jack must’ve felt the same. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, carelessly. She buried her face against his chest. </p>
<p>‘Where did you get so good at bowling?’ he asked, looking down at her. </p>
<p>‘My dad.’ She shrugged. She rested the palm of her spare hands against his back, against the notches of his spine which she could feel through his shirt. ‘Oh and one of my ex boyfriends at college was obsessed with it. But I didn't go with him much.’  </p>
<p>‘Ex boyfriend?’ </p>
<p>‘Yes. They do exist, Jack.’ </p>
<p>She drank some of the beer and listened to him laugh. His whole body vibrated with it. His ribs rattled against her. </p>
<p>He said, ‘I’m not a complete idiot, Claire.’ </p>
<p>‘Good to know, the US justice system is depending on you.’ </p>
<p>‘Hmm.’ </p>
<p>He drank his beer, and shook his head chuckling.  </p>
<p>‘Talking about exes,’ she said. She ran the tips of her fingers up his back until they met his shoulder blade. ‘You ever take Diana Hawthorne to a place like this?’ </p>
<p>He hesitated for a second. She could feel his body still, the laughing cut out. They’d talked about their histories, that long conversation Shelly and Sally, but there was something in the indelible way Diana had once belonged to him, felt indebted to his service, which hung between them. It opened a box, and Claire didn’t know if they could shut it. </p>
<p>He shrugged and twisted so that they could look at each other face to face. </p>
<p>‘No. No bowling alleys for Diana,’ he said, and she could hear him trying to sound upbeat. ‘She was more into theatre, opera. God, she wouldn’t eat anywhere that wasn’t five stars.’ </p>
<p>‘You’re joking?’ </p>
<p>He shook his head. ‘Diana never worried about the cost of things.’ </p>
<p>Claire whistled. ‘I guess I’m saving you a fortune with these crappy beers, then?’ </p>
<p>His serious expression broke and he looked down so she couldn’t see him smile. </p>
<p>‘Yeah. I guess you are.’ </p>
<p>He looked up, right at her, and Claire reached forward to lay her hand on his cheek. She traced the tips of her fingers along the bone softly. </p>
<p>‘I took her to Ireland, you know,’ he said. She nodded. She thought for a moment of his impulsive dream to go to the Catskills, to drive and get away. She wondered if he’d had that dream with Diana. ‘And we drank champagne and stayed at this fucking castle. Diana wanted everything to be perfect. She wanted me to marry her.’ He shifted his weight, as if even the admission of this made him feel guilty. </p>
<p>‘But you didn’t?’ </p>
<p>‘Marriage isn’t for me. Not anymore.’ </p>
<p>He waited a second, to see if she’d tense at his words. But Claire continued to look at him straight up. She had no illusions about the man sitting in front her - no fairytale dreams about the two of them sailing off into the sunset. She was a realist. She knew Jack was the same.  </p>
<p>‘Diana wouldn’t listen to me,’ he said, ‘We broke up a few weeks after we got back. She stayed a month or two more.’ Jack paused and put his beer down on the table beside the couch, his movement made Claire sit up. He turned back to her and put his hands on her shoulders. He said, ‘The worst of it is that I didn’t realise. I didn’t see what I was doing to her. I didn’t know what she’d done…’ He trailed off, lost in thought. The inevitable, for me, sat between them.  </p>
<p>Claire didn’t know what to say, so she leant forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. She pulled him towards her, as if to silently tell him that it was okay, that she wasn’t Diana, that she understood though she wasn't sure what quite what she was understanding. She wanted to tell him she loved him, and that he could trust her. She kissed him deeply and hoped he knew, hoped he could tell from the way she held him. </p>
<p>They broke apart by the mechanical sound of the ball return machine beeping, which distracted them and made them laugh. Claire stood up and picked a bowling ball. </p>
<p>‘You’re going to win,’ he said, resting his arms along the back of the couch. </p>
<p>‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’ </p>
<p>She hit a strike. But the machine ruled it out. She’d stepped over the line without realising.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Set post Trophy (6x12) </p>
<p>Thanks for reading. </p>
<p>Any comments and kudos are welcome!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. for the people</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Adam Schiff was in the doorway. She hadn’t noticed him at first, but now she glanced up and there he was, a specter in the corner of her eye. She was sitting on the couch in Jack’s office, knees drawn up to her chest, a folder of trial prep open on her lap. Claire didn’t acknowledge Adam in any way, but stayed staring down at the piece of paper in front of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked until the words began to swim and lose what little meaning they previously had. Claire wasn’t reading, but avoiding. What it said didn’t matter, but the silent distraction it called for comforted her. Adam almost certainly wasn’t looking for her; he never was. It was Jack he haunted this place for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Smith trial was nearly at an end. They were putting the sister up on the stand the next day, the early session, and there was this small hope in Claire for that to be the end of it. She was sick of the case, of the weight heavy in her chest. She was sick of the way she couldn’t look Jack in the eye when he made love to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You can’t leap tall buildings. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That’s what he said. She knew it was true. These days it felt like she could barely walk between her apartment and her car. Claire thought Adam Schiff could. He could leap anything if he wanted. He did it when no one was looking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the doorway, Adam himself cleared his throat. He had his hands thrust deep into his pockets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Has Jack disappeared in a puff of smoke?’ he asked. ‘Because god help me if-’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Olivet,’ Claire interrupted. Her voice was sharp, sudden. She didn’t look at Schiff. The older man seemed to mull her words slowly, hanging in the doorway. There was an insurmountable distance between the two of them, bred from these years they’d worked together. She thought he hated the idealism in her, and she’d laugh at that, because it was the idealism which was dying in her as surely as anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I don’t suppose you have any idea when he’ll grace us with his presence?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘No.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Just wonderful. Your case has more holes than a swiss cheese and here he is running off to talk to a therapist.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire didn’t say anything to that. She turned the page of the folder she was supposed to be reading. Adam didn’t budge. She could feel his gaze on her, strong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You better pull this off, young lady,’ he said. She heard him shuffle against the carpet. ‘Jack assures me he knows what he’s doing. Second chair. Pah. I said off the case and you bounce right back without a scratch.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced up, and watched him throw his hands in the air. He was shaking his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s his case-’ she started, but Adam jumped right back in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I know it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>his case. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ha. I may be old, Miss Kincaid, but I’m certainly not blind. Mind you, he’s never done something quite like this for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>woman </span>
  </em>
  <span>before.’  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire opened her mouth and then closed it. She rolled her eyes and shifted on the couch, unfolding her tired, cramped legs. She shook her head only a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adam continued into the silence. He stepped into the room to speak. ‘I told him not to hire you. There was a whole list. But he’s always had a mind of his own.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire leant forward, so that her elbows rested on her knees. She looked up at Adam, who was standing just in front of her now. She could see the lines around his eyes, etched from years of anxiety and tiredness. He looked permanently weary now, as if every person he looked upon had disappointed him in one way or another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I earned my place here,’ she said. She laced her hands together and sat up straighter. She’d known, since the first day that she’d met Jack, that he’d requested her. Up until now it wasn’t something she’d thought much about. It clearly preyed on Adam’s mind more than hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Oh you put in the hours, the work. But any chance of a good career, Miss Kincaid, you’ve lost that now.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t say it like a threat, but an inevitability. Like he was so used to the machinations of this office that he could now tell the future. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Because of the Smith case?’ she said. Claire closed the folder and threw it onto the couch beside her. She wasn’t getting any reading done anytime soon. She leant towards Schiff. ‘It was an honest-’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Not the Smith case,’ he said tersely, ‘though that doesn’t help you. But did rather try to warn you.’ He paused and pulled a chair so he could sit right in front of her. He steepled his hands and shook his head. ‘Do you know what happened to Jack’s other conquests? Hmm? You helped put one of them in prison, of course.’ He clapped his hands together like a crack of thunder. ‘Another’s swapped sides and the first, well, she quit the law entirely to get away from him. So which option do you prefer? Hmm? Or maybe we can get the whole set. He’s not managed to have one fired yet.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughed dryly, without humor, then continued.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Now look, I don’t care what you do in your own time. You could be the Queen of Sheba for all I care. But nobody’s going to take you seriously if they think you got here lying on your back, young lady.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire stared blankly at him for a moment. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I shouldn’t,’ she started, without looking up, ‘have to apologize for the choices </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>make about my personal life.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘One mistake is forgivable, but twice?’ He sunk back into his chair. His eyes were glassy, dark, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She’d never be able to read Schiff, she knew that well enough by now. ‘I don’t doubt you think you know what you’re doing.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I don’t see you pulling Jack up for any of this?’ Claire said, slowly. She chose her words carefully, and watched Schiff bite his tongue. She looked him right in the eye. ‘I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He sighed heavily but didn’t speak, choosing instead to keep her gaze, as if he was waiting to hear what she had to say next. He leant forward almost imperceptibly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire shrugged her shoulders. She tried to turn away but his eyes followed her. He had this way of looking at a person, all the way back to when she’d first met him - when she’d been that fresh faced, disaster of a girl sitting alone in his office waiting for the interview. He looked with steel in his gaze, something metal and sharp, keen. It was too much in one look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I understand you’ve known Jack a long time,’ she said, which garnered a buzz of acceptance from Adam. ‘Jack’s made mistakes. All those women, do you think they’re throw away? The cost of him? I’ll tell you, Mr Schiff. I will not be thrown away. If you want me to go, I’ll go. On my terms.’  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire tried to match his look. She failed. Adam chuckled to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘The price of Jack McCoy, ‘eh? Is that what you think this is? You think I sit here in judgement of all his petty little love affairs? I’d have lost all my hair in that case. It’s not my business until you drag it into this office. It is not a laundry. Do you hear me? ’  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tapped his knee with his index finger with each word he said. The emphasis was clear. Claire took a deep breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I didn’t drag-’</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘He put you back on the case.</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hung between them. The surety in his words surprised her. All that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, say to her was in those words. And it dawned on her, like a cold shock dripping down her spine. Why he’d been so angry that Jack had gone against him, that she’d come back, not hidden away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It showed how much she meant to Jack, how much he trusted her. It was the outside, that midnight hour, bleeding in. Bringing her back on the case was a fuck you to Adam, it was Jack saying, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re wrong about her</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adam Schiff was saying, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jack McCoy has never done something like this before. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All those women, those people dismissed as mistakes, reputation makers. The ghosts which haunted Jack and Adam and Claire Kincaid along with them. How could he do this for her and for none of them? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You go win the case, Miss Kinciad,’ Adam said. ‘The law is of paramount importance. Not your sneaking around or your mistakes or your choice of boy-friend. You didn’t want to deal. And I count the bodies, remember. Three of them. For your sake, I hope Jack was right. Second chair. Ha. I heard you did the opening statement.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I think he was making a point,’ Claire said. Jack had put her on show, trying to prove to the judge, the jury, that she wasn't some hack lawyer. He tried to fix the mistakes with a performance, a showman’s show. And she was center stage. For him, she’d do it a hundred times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yes,’ Adam said distastefully. ‘A distraction.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughed, just for a second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s all smoke and mirrors, Mr Schiff.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Don’t I know it,’ he said. ‘Don’t I know it by now.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stood up and headed towards the door. Just before he reached the threshold he stopped and turned back around. They looked at each other across the space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Schiff who blinked first.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He left her sitting in the office, waiting for Jack to come back. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This takes place post Pro Se (6x21)</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. the weight of ‘if’</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They had thirty minutes until the alarm went off. Thirty minutes and the bright, early morning light was slipping through the broken third blind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first, she wasn’t sure he was awake too. Usually, the alarm dragged him kicking and screaming into the new day. She’d watched him wake enough times to know that Jack McCoy was not a guy who liked early starts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she had her head on his chest and his breathing had changed. They were still just lying there. The harsh digital numbers flashed at them. The minutes were ticking away. 29, 28. He rolled a little, to free one of his arms. He brushed the palm of his hand down her bare shoulder and pressed a brief kiss to her collarbone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither of them said anything, he just held her. </span>
</p>
<p>27, 26. </p>
<p>
  <span>She’d been telling him to get that blind fixed for almost a month now. But it seemed like a comfort: that warm, soft light, which draped itself over their faces so that they could see each other. There was such a peace in it; the way she rested her head in the curve of his ribs, lying a hand flat against the notches of the bones, dragging the pads of her finger tips over each ridge in his flesh. Claire counted to herself, all the way down to the curve of his hip. She ran her thumb over the hollow there, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, his voice leaden with sleep. She felt him shift ever so slightly on the bed, and the frame creaked and protested. </span>
</p>
<p>‘That’s dangerous.’ </p>
<p>
  <span>‘Hmmm.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What have you been thinking about, then?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She felt him inhale, his ribs contracting upwards, outwards, then falling back down to settle softly against her body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What would you do-’ he said. Then he stopped. She thought he’d continue, but he didn’t. He looked down at her face but she was tracing a figure eight on the empty space between two of his ribs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What would I do when?’ she asked. She pushed against his chest lightly. ‘Don’t be so damn vague all the time Jack.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed and held her tighter. His fingers laced themselves around her wrist, territorially. She still didn’t look up. There had been something in the way he’d spoken which had frightened her. No. Not frightened. But there was a serious edge to it and it certainly worried her. They’d talked less and less these last few weeks, and it was easy to put it down to being busy. So busy that all they seemed to do these days was crawl in from work - to his apartment or hers - and slip into bed together silently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was something reverent in it. Devout. Lying there, moving together, like they </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. More than words, more than fights and fairness. More than justice, they needed to prove they still felt the same. But Claire thought, if everything faded to nothing, if it all cut out just like that - there’d still be that attraction, that quiet, simmering, silence, which had binded then from the very start. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So when he spoke her mind raced. They’d had a good day, right? A late night with Ruthie, who’d run out on them to see her son - a dinner in an upscale restaurant, where they’d laughed at something which now slipped her mind. They had spoken, dispelled the guilt which had seemed to have fallen on Jack, and it had been easy to forget it.    </span>
</p>
<p>She was in no mood to fight. Not in his arms, not like this. Claire would prefer silence over that, any day. </p>
<p>
  <span>But there were no accusing eyes, not tonight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What would you do,’ he said, again, ‘if you found out you were pregnant?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stilled against him. He curled into her, to try and gauge her reaction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘If this is about what I said to Ruthie-’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I know how you feel about it, Claire. I know what you said.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘So? You know it’s not going to happen.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘But what if?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t talking in a happy, let’s have a baby, kind of voice. But a serious, dark tone. Like he was genuinely worried about what she might say to him. Claire glanced up and caught the edges of his eyes as he blinked in the glow. The clock, beside him on the bedside table, flashed at her. 23, then 22 minutes left. The morning was getting away from them. </span>
</p>
<p>‘What happened, last time?’ she asked. ‘With Ellen.’ She didn’t answer his question. </p>
<p>She felt, rather than saw, him shrug. </p>
<p>
  <span>‘She was four months gone by the time she found out.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘And?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘She told me in this restaurant downtown. She said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you can’t ignore it then. You can’t go running out.</span>
  </em>
  <span>’  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Did you wanna run?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I had no idea what I wanted.’ He ran his hand down her arm until it rested on her hip. He brushed the bone, softly. ‘I know we haven’t really talked about it-’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘It’s okay, Jack,’ she said, cutting him out. She closed her eyes and spoke confidently, sure of herself. But there was still something underneath, something that laid heavy with them in the bed. She remembered Ruthie in the bar, during the first trial, when she said,</span>
  <em>
    <span> tick tock, Claire</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Talk about tick tock. The clock on the table charted the minutes as they slipped by. 17, 16. Claire was often awake before the alarm, and liked to lie there in the quiet and listen to Jack as he slept. To the way he breathed, slowly and surely and the world couldn’t touch him, then, the way it could later.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And what was she doing here? The clock ticked down. It hit 12, 11. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was twenty eight years old. And here she was lying in bed with Jack, who was already a father - who had seen and done it all before and </span>
  <em>
    <span>failed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Did she want to be the second attempt? Round two with the kid and the job and the long hours. Not enough time. There was never enough time for it. Did she even want a kid herself? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My priorities are kind of screwy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that’s something else Ruthie had said. Claire couldn’t even think of it, of holding a baby in her arms and it being </span>
  <em>
    <span>hers. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So utterly dependent, so unutterably loved. Truth be told, she rarely thought of Jack that way, as a father, someone who had held his daughter and promised to never hurt her. He had failed at that too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire wasn’t made of the right stuff for it. That’s what she said to herself. She was a lawyer, first off. A lawyer and that’s what counted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘We don’t have to talk about this now,’ she said, and she laid the flat of her cheek against Jack’s chest. She could hear the vacant, empty sound of his breathing.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Someday?’ he said, tentatively. </span>
</p>
<p>‘Yeah,’ she said. </p>
<p>
  <span>The clock had five minutes left. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claire pushed up so she could hold herself above him. Her face was an inch away from him, if that. She looked him in the eye and saw the mirth dance in the reflection. She said, ‘Don’t worry Jack. Don’t worry. We’ve got all the time in the world.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was laughing when she kissed him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only she could’ve laughed for all of that time. For all of the time in the damn world. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He put his arms around her and pulled her close. Closer and closer, until their bodies fell together and the rush of worry which had come over her felt, instead, like butterflies in her stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kissed her like it was the first and last time. Like this was the only moment that counted, really. Like this was the whole universe, his bedroom, with her hands on his face and their lips pressed together in a desperate, final image. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And this was it. There was nothing and everything to say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She kissed him like breathing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beside them, the alarm went off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The time was up. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter is set post-Homesick(6x22) </p>
<p>Thanks to everyone who’s been reading! </p>
<p>Please kudos and comment if you have time.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. last move’s now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Let’s see - how did it end? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The screech of tyres, the slow kaleidoscope scream of breaking glass. A horn, from somewhere, just one blast neverending. It echoed and echoed, it rang in people’s ears for days. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was seven and a half minutes. That was the difference. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was how it ended. In bloodstains on steering wheels and jagged little cuts that would never be stitched. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With, ‘Tell me where you are, Jack?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And his voice, weak and stinging, falling like whiskey over his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Claire - Claire -’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Does it matter what he said? Does it? There’s nobody else left to remember. </span>
</p>
<p>Go back, further. Let’s unspool the day, force the sun to come back up. Let’s find those lovers lost in time, together in the early morning gloom. And they didn’t know, then, what it was possible to lose. </p>
<p>They thought it was just each other. Arms folded, each side of the kitchen with their battle lines drawn. </p>
<p>
  <span>‘Stop needling, Jack. I don’t need a lecture.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I’m just saying.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You’re always just saying. Just leave it.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to come.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A pause. She eyed him from across the room. He had his tie in his hands, ready to put it on. The moonlight and sunlight mixed at the window, throwing shadows past them. </span>
</p>
<p>‘I’m sick of it. I’m damn sick of it, Jack.’</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Then why are we doing this?’ </span>
</p>
<p>She closed the space between them. Neither said anything. Stalemate. She reached up and took his tie out of his hands. With cold, quick hands, she threaded it onto his collar and fixed the knot. She smoothed down the fabric and then smudged her thumb across the curve of his cheekbone. </p>
<p>
  <span>‘Is it over?’ she said. </span>
</p>
<p>He was cut out in the bright lights of the kitchen. She could barely look at him. She rested her head in the curve of his neck and his arms were on her shoulder blades, flat out. </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t seem to breathe in her arms. Like he was holding on, waiting. Like the moment was caught, a fraction - a fragment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She kissed the shell of his ear, slowly and his hands fell to the small of her back. And nobody said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nobody said, ‘This is the end, it was always going to happen like this.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I love you.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Goodbye.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And maybe they should’ve said it all, because silence never did nobody no good. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was this vast emptiness between them, a sea on which she could sail for hours and not find land. His grasp around her felt hollow, as if a slight movement would crack it right down the center. As if she was hollow, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kissed the very edge of her lips, and stayed there - with his cheekbone pressed against hers. They were so close they couldn’t look each other in the eye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What he did say was this: ‘Claire, we need to go. We’ll be late.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I know.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Let’s take your car.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Ok.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And in the car, later, when the sun was swinging up past the horizon, so bright it blinded her as she drove, it started all over again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It went like this: </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘We have the right to justice in this country,’ he said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And her, hitting back, not looking. As always. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘You call </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>justice?’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’d had this fight a hundred times. They knew their lines by wrote. For him it was a performance, that last great show - for her it was more, down to her very soul, the fabric of herself and her worth. Her understanding of the world balanced on a coin that she could never toss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, as they sat in the parking lot, waiting. The sun fell heavy on the hood of her car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She said, ‘You won, Jack.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He said nothing. He didn’t need to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He already knew. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hit rewind. Hit it fast and watch the tape spin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back and back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One night. And the radio was on, someone’s laughing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were standing in the center of his apartment and it was three in the morning. They were holding each other and they were dancing and Claire Kincaid, she said, ‘You’ve got two left feet.’ She pushed him in the chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘So do you!’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They swayed together, delirious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just a memory, something that after the fact seemed as difficult to hold as a dream - like it never really happened at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A memory and it was just Jack who remembered it in the end. </span>
</p>
<p>He remembered the feel of Claire’s hand in his, soft and small. The way her body fitted against him and the jut of her hip brushed against the bare skin where his shirt had pulled up. The sound of her voice, like a song, but he no longer recalled what it was she said. </p>
<p>
  <span>In the end, he dreamt of it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>After</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He dreamt of it and it felt real, left him shaking because he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>swear </span>
  </em>
  <span>she was beside him. And he’d lie there and curse himself out because why couldn’t he remember everything. Why couldn’t he remember what she’d said to him? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was forgetting the price he paid? As she slipped away, like a wisp - like smoke that curled, unreachable, intangible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The price for saying, ‘And to hell with her.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because maybe that was where she went, in the end. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was how it ended, really. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With memories, ‘cause they stayed. They filled Jack McCoy up until he couldn’t breathe, until he suffocated with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It ended with a dream, the last dream, the last memory. </span>
</p>
<p>Claire Kincaid lived on. </p>
<p>
  <span>And all Jack McCoy wanted was those damn early mornings, where they’d lie in bed and wait for the alarm to go off. Not perfect days or fancy dinners or all those cases they ever won. Just one day, a crap day maybe; any day where it was him and her and she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>Wait. Just once more. Watch the tape as it folds into itself. </p>
<p>
  <span>Over and over. Skip the fights and the kisses and the silence which slipped between them like a blanket. Back past the quiet affirmations and the sideways glances, the way Adam would shake his head in disappointment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Undo each case, leave it as footnotes to a history yet to happen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wait - </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>and then:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘I spoke to Mr Schiff, he said you requested me.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was standing in the doorway, not yet a ghost. He was standing by the desk, with his back to her. </span>
</p>
<p>She watched him move. He was searching for a book. She held her briefcase nervously in both hands. </p>
<p>‘As soon as I heard Ben had resigned. Your reputation precedes you.’</p>
<p>
  <span>She raised an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘As does yours.’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack McCoy. The one and only. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it was a game, then. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just a game. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So this is it...</p>
<p>Thanks so much to anyone who read this story, I had a great time writing it. </p>
<p>Please kudos and/or comment if you have a moment.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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